.yw'^- 


N 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    13D    fi^t3 


'/  2   I  p 


STORIES 


FROM   THE 


ITALIAN    POETS: 

BEING    A    SUMMARY    IN    PROSE 

OF   THE 

POEMS  OP  DANTE,  PULCI,  BOIARDO,  ARIOSTO  AND  TAS30; 

WITH  COMMENTS  THROUGHOUT, 
OCCASIONAL    PASSAGES    VERSIFIED, 

AND 

CRITICAL  NOTICES  OP  THE  LIVES  AND  GENIDS  OF  THE  AUTHORS. 
BY    LEIfxH    HUNT. 


NEW    EDITION,    COMPLETE    IN    ON^    VOLUME. 


NEW  YORK: 
GEORGE   P.   PUTNAM,    155    BROADWAY^ 

1848. 


A 


,^" 


TO 


SIR  PERCY   SHELLEY,  Bart 


MY    DEAR    SIR    PERCY. 

As  I  know  no  man  who  surpasses  yourself  in  combining  a  love 
of  the  most  romantic  fiction  with  the  coolest  good  sense,  and,  in  passing 
from  the  driest  metaphysical  questions  to  the  heartiest  enjoyment  of 
humour, — I  trust  that  even  a  modesty  so  true  as  yours  will  not  grudge 
me  the  satisfaction  of  inscribing  these  volumes  with  your  name. 

That  you  should  possess  such  varieties  of  taste  is  no  wonder,  consid- 
erino'what  an  abundance  of  intellectual  honours  you  inherit;  nor  might 
the  world  have  been  the  better  for  it,  had  they  been  tastes,  and  nothing 
more.  But  that  you  should  inherit  also  that  zeal  for  justice  to  mankind, 
which  has  become  so  Christian  a  feature  in  the  character  of  the  age,  and 
that  you  should  include  in  that  zeal  a  special  regard  for  the  welfare  of 
your  Father's  Friend,  is  a  subject  of  constant  pleasurable  reflection  to 

Your  obliged  and  affectionate 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


302430 


PREFACE. 


The  purpose  of  these  volumes  is,  to  add  to  the  stock  of 
tales  from  the  ItaUan  writers ;  to  retain  at  the  same  time 
as  mucli  of  the  poetry  of  the  originals  as  it  is  in  the  power 
of  the  writer's  prose  to  compass ;  and  to  furnish  careful  bi- 
ographical notices  of  the  authors.  There  have  been  several 
collections  of  stories  from  the  novelists  of  Italy,  but  none 
from  the  poets ;  and  it  struck  me  that  prose  versions  from 
these,  of  the  kind  here  offered  to  the  public,  might  not  be 
unwillingly  received.  The  stories  are  selected  from  the  five 
principal  narrativ^e  poets,  Dante,  Pulci,  Boiardo,  Ariosto,  and 
Tasso ;  they  comprise  the  most  popular  of  such  as  are  fit  for 
translation ;  are  reduced  into  one  continuous  narrative,  when 
diffused  and  interrupted,  as  in  the  instances  of  those  of  An- 
gelica, and  Armida  ;  are  accompanied  with  critical  and  ex- 
planatory notes  ;  and,  in  the  case  of  Dante,  consist  of  an 
abstract  of  the  poet's  whole  work.  The  volumes  are  fur- 
thermore interspersed  with  the  most  favourite  morceaux  of 
the  originals,  followed  sometimes  with  attempts  to  versify 
them  ;  and  in  the  Appendix,  for  the  better  satisfaction  of 
the  student,  are  given  entire  stories,  also  in  the  original,  and 
occasionally  rendered  in  like  manner.  The  book  is  partic- 
ularly intended  for  such  students  or  other  lovers  of  the  lan- 
guage as  are  pleased  with  any  fresh  endeavours  to  recom- 


viii  PREFACE. 


mend  it ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  for  such  purely  English 
readers  as  wish  to  know  sometliing  about  Italian  poetry, 
without  having  leisure  to  cultivate  its  acquaintance. 

I  did  not  intend  in  the  first  instance  to  depart  from  the 
plan  of  selection  in  the  case  of  Dante ;  but  when  I  consid- 
ered what  an  extraordinary  person  he  was, — how"  intense  is 
every  thing  w  hich  he  says, — how  widely  he  has  re-attracted 
of  late  the  attention  of  the  world, — how  willingly  perhaps  his 
poem  miglit  be  regarded  by  the  reader  as  being  itself  one 
continued  story  (which,  in  fact,  it  is),  related  personally  of 
the  w^riter, — and  lastly,  w^hat  a  combination  of  ditficulties 
have  prevented  his  best  translators  in  verse  from  giving  the 
public  a  just  idea  of  his  almost  Scriptural  simplicity — I  be- 
gan to  think  that  an  abstract  of  his  entire  w^ork  might  pos- 
sibly be  looked  upon  as  supplying  something  of  a  desidera- 
tum. I  am  aware  that  nothing  but  verse  can  do  perfect  jus- 
tice to  verse  ;  but  besides  the  imperfections  which  are  par- 
donable, because  inevitable,  in  all  such  metrical  endeavours, 
the  desire  to  impress  a  grand  and  worshipful  idea  of  Dante 
has  been  too  apt  to  lead  his  translators  into  a  tone  and  man- 
ner the  reverse  of  his  passionate,  practical,  and  creative  style 
— a  style  whicli  may  be  said  to  write  things  instead  of 
words ;  and  thus  to  render  every  w^ord  that  is  put  out  of  its 
place,  or  brought  in  for  help  and  fiUing  up,  a  misrepresenta- 
tion. I  do  not  mean  to  say,  that  he  himself  never  does  any 
tiling  of  the  sort,  or  does  not  occasionally  assimie  too  much 
of  the  oracle  and  the  schoolmaster,  in  manner  as  well  as 
matter ;  but  passion,  and  the  absence  of  the  superfluous,  are 
the  chief  characteristics  of  his  poetry.  Fortunately,  this  sin- 
cerity of  purpose  and  utterance  in  Dante,  render  him  the 
least  pervertible  of  poets  in  a  sincere  prose  translation  ;  and, 
since  I  ventured  on  attem])ting  one,  I  have  had  the  pleasure 


PREFACE.  ix 


of  iiiccting  ^Yitll  an  express  recommeiulation  of  such  a  ver- 
sion^ ill  ail  early  number  of  the  Eduiburgh  Revleiv. 

The  abstract  of  Dante,  therefore,  in  tliesc  vohimes  (with 
every  deprecation  that  becomes  me  of  being  supposed  to  pre- 
tend to  give  a  thorough  idea  of  any  poetry  whatsoever,  es- 
pecially without  its  metrical  form)  aspires  to  be  regarded  as, 
at  all  events,  not  exhibiting  a  false  idea  of  the  Dantesque 
spirit  in  point  of  feeling  and  expression.     It  is  true,  I  have 
omitted  long  tedious  lectures  of  scholastic  divinity,  and  other 
learned  absurdities  of  the  time,  which  are  among  the  bars  to 
the  poem's  being  read  through,  even  in  Italy  (which  Foscolo 
tells  us  is  never  the  case) ;  and  I  have  compressed  the  w^ork 
in  other  passages  not  essentially  necessary  to  the  formation 
of  a  just  idea  of  the  author.     But  quite  enough  remains  to 
do  so  in  every  respect ;  and  in  no  part  of  it  have  I  made  ad- 
ditions or  alterations.     There  is  warrant — I  hope  I  may  say 
letter — for  every  thing  put  down.     Dante  is  the  greatest  poet 
for  intensity  that  ever  lived  ;  and   he  excites  a  correspond- 
mg  emotion  in  his  reader — I  wish  I  could  say,  always  on 
the  poet's  side ;  but  his  ferocious  hates  and  bigotries  too  often 
tempt  us  to  hate  the  bigot,  and  always  compel  us  to  take 
part  with  the  fellow-creatures  whom  he  outrages.     At  least, 
such  is  their  effect  on  myself.     Such  a  man,  however,  is  the 
last  whom  a  reporter  is  inclined  to  misrepresent.     We  re- 
spect his  sincerity  too  much,  ferocious  though  it  be ;  and  we 
like  to  give  him  the  full  benefit  of  the  recoil  of  his  curses 
and  maledictions.     I  hope  I  have  not  omitted  one.     On  the 
other  hand,  as  little  have  I  closed  my  feelings  against  the 
lovely  and  enchanting  sweetness  which  this  great  semi-bar- 
barian sometimes  so  affectingly  utters.     On  tho.-;e  occasions 

1   "  It  is  probable  that  a  prose  translation  would  give  a  better  idea  of  the  ge- 
nius and  manner  of  this  poet  than  any  metrical  one."    Vol.  i.  p.  310, 

2 


PREFACE. 


he  is  like  an  angel  enclosed  for  penance  in  some  furious  gi- 
ant, and  permitted  to  weep  through  the  creature's  eyes. 

The  stories  from  goodnaturcd  Pulci  I  have  been  obliged 
to  compress  for  other  reasons — chiefly  their  excessive  diffuse- 
ness.  A  paragraph  of  the  version  will  sometimes  comprise 
many  pages.  Those  of  Boiardo  and  Ariosto  are  more  exact ; 
and  the  reader  will  be  good  enough  to  bear  in  mind,  that  no- 
thing is  added  to  any  of  the  poets,  different  as  the  case  might 
seem  here  and  there,  on  comparison  ^\^th  the  originals.  An 
equivalent  for  whatever  is  said  is  to  be  found  in  some  part  of 
the  context — generally  in  letter,  always  in  spirit.  The  least 
characteristically  exact  passages  are,  some  in  the  love-scenes 
of  Tasso ;  for  I  have  omitted  the  plays  upon  words  and  oth- 
er corruptions  in  style,  in  which  that  poet  permitted  himself 
to  indulge.  But  I  have  noticed  the  circumstance  in  the  com- 
ment. In  other  respects,  I  have  endeavoured  to  make  my 
version  convey  some  idea  of  the  different  styles  and  genius 
of  the  writers, — of  the  severe  passion  of  Dante,  the  overfliow- 
ing  gaiety  and  affecting  sympathies  of  Pulci,  several  of  whose 
passages  in  the  Battle  of  Roncesvalles  are  masterpieces  of 
pathos  ;  the  romantic  and  inventive  elegance  of  Boiardo  ;  the 
great  cheerful  universality  of  Ariosto,  like  a  healthy  ariima 
vuindi  ;  and  the  ambitious  irritabilit}^,  the  fairy  imagination, 
and  tender  but  somewhat  effeminate  voluptuousness  of  the 
poet  of  Armida  and  Rinaldo.  I  do  not  pretend  that  prose 
versions  of  passages  from  these  writers  can  supersede  the  ne- 
cessity of  metrical  ones,  supposing  proper  metrical  ones  at- 
tainable. Tiiey  demand  them  more  than  Dante,  the  tone 
and  manner  in  their  case  being  of  more  importance  to  the 
effect.  But  with  all  due  respect  to  such  translators  as  Har- 
rington, Rose,  and  Wiffen,  their  books  are  not  Ariosto  and 
Tasso,  even  in  manner.     Harrington,  the  gay  "godson"  of 


PREFACE.  xi 


Queen  Elizabeth,  is  not  always  unlike  Ariosto  ;  but  when 
not  in  good  spirits  he  becomes  as  dull  as  if  her  majesty  had 
frowned  on  him.  Rose  was  a  man  of  wit,  and  a  scholar ; 
yet  he  has  imdoubtedly  turned  the  ease  and  animation  of 
his  original  into  inversion  and  insipidity.  And  Wiffen, 
though  elegant  and  even  poetical,  did  an  unfortunate  thing 
for  Tasso,  when  he  gave  an  additional  line  and  a  number 
of  paraphrastic  thoughts  to  a  stanza  already  tending  to  the 
superfluous.  Fairfax  himself,  who  upon  the  whole,  and  with 
regard  to  a  work  of  any  length,  is  the  best  metrical  translator 
our  language  has  seen,  and,  like  Chapman,  a  genuine  poet, 
strangely  aggravated  the  sins  of  prettiness  and  conceit  in 
his  original,  and  added  to  them  a  love  of  tautology  amount- 
ing to  that  of  a  lawyer.  As  to  Hoole,  he  is  below  criticism  ; 
and  other  versions  I  have  not  happened  to  see.  Now  if  I 
had  no  acquaintance  with  the  Italian  language,  I  confess  I 
would  rather  get  any  friend  who  had  to  read  to  me  a  passage 
out  of  Dante,  Tasso,  or  Aiiosto,  into  the  first  simple  prose 
that  offered  itself,  than  go  to  any  of  the  above  translators  for 
a  taste  of  it,  Fairfax  excepted  ;  and  we  have  seen  with  how 
much  allowance  his  sample  would  have  to  be  taken.  I  have 
therefore,  with  some  restrictions,  only  ventured  to  do  for  the 
pulilic  what  I  would  have  had  a  friend  do  for  myself. 

The  Critical  and  Biograjjhical  Notices  I  did  not  intend 
to  make  so  long  at  first ;  but  the  interest  grew  upon  me ; 
and  I  hope  the  reader  will  regard  some  of  them — Dante's 
and  Tasso's  in  particular — as  being  "  stories"  themselves, 
after  their  kind, — "  stories,  alas,  too  true  ;"  "  romances  of 
real  life."  The  extraordinary  character  of  Dante,  which  is 
personally  mixed  up  with  hir^  writings  beyond  that  of  any 
other  poet,  has  led  me  into  references  to  his  church  and  creed, 
unavoidable  at  any  time  in  the  endeavour  to  give  a  thorough 


xu  PREFACE. 


estimate  of  his  genius,  and  singularly  demanded  by  certain 
phenomena  of  the  present  day.  I  hold  those  phenomena  to 
be  alike  absurd  and  fugitive ;  but  only  so  by  reason  of  their 
being  openly  so  proclaimed  ;  for  mankind  have  a  tendency 
to  the  absurd,  if  their  imaginations  are  not  properly  directed ; 
and  one  of  the  uses  of  poetry  is,  to  keep  the  faculty  in  a 
healthy  state,  and  cause  it  to  know  its  boundaries.  Dante, 
in  the  fierce  egotism  of  his  passions,  and  the  strange  identi- 
fication of  his  knowledge  with  all  that  was  knowable,  would 
fain  have  made  his  poetry  both  a  sword  against  individuals, 
and  a  prop  for  the  support  of  the  superstition  that  corrupted 
them.  This  was  reversing  the  duty  of  a  Christian  and  a 
great  man  ;  and  there  happen  to  be  existing  reasons  why  it 
is  salutary  to  shew  that  he  had  no  right  to  do  so,  and  must 
not  have  his  barbarism  confounded  with  his  strength.  Mach- 
iavelli  was  of  opinion,  that  if  Christianity  had  not  reverted 
to  its  first  principles,  by  means  of  the  poverty  and  pious  lives 
of  St.  Francis  and  St.  Dominic,*  the  faith  would  have  been 
lost.  It  may  have  been  ;  but  such  are  not  the  secrets  of  its 
preservation  in  times  of  science  and  progression,  when  the 
spirit  of  inquiry  has  establislied  itself  among  all  classes,  and 
nothing  is  taken  for  granted,  as  it  used  to  be.  A  few  per- 
sons here  and  there,  who  confound  a  religious  reaction  in  a 
corner  with  the  reverse  of  the  fact  all  over  the  rest  of  Eu- 
rope, may  persuade  themselves,  if  they  please,  that  the  world 

*  Discorsi  sopra  la  Prima  Deca  di  Tito  Livio,  lib.  iii.  cap.  i.  At  p.  136  of 
the  present  volume  I  have  too  hastily  called  St.  Dominic  "  the  founder  of  the 
Inquisition."  It  is  generally  conceded,  I  believe,  by  candid  Protestant  in- 
quirers, that  he  was  not,  whatever  zeal  in  the  foundation  and  support  of  the 
tribunal  may  have  been  manifested  by  his  order.  But  this  does  not  acquit  him 
of  the  cruelty  for  which  he  has  been  praised  by  Dante :  he  joined  in  the  san- 
guinary persecution  of  the  Albigenses. 


PREFACE.  xiii 


lias  not  advanced  in  knowledge  for  the  last  three  centuries, 
and  so  get  up  and  cry  aloud  to  us  out  of  obsolete  horn-books  ; 
but  the  community  laugh  at  them.  Every  body  else  is  in- 
quiring into  first  principles,  while  they  are  dogmatising  on 
a  forty-ninth  proposition.  The  Irish  themselves,  as  they 
ought  to  do,  care  more  for  their  pastors  than  for  the  pope  ; 
and  if  any  body  wishes  to  know  what  is  thought  of  his  holi- 
ness at  head-quarters,  let  him  consult  the  remarkable  and 
admirable  pamphlet  which  has  lately  issued  from  the  pen 
of  IMr.  Mazzini.*  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  excellent 
Roman  Catholics  ;  I  have  suffered  in  behalf  of  their  eman- 
cipation, and  would  do  so  again  to-morrow ;  but  I  believe 
that  if  even  their  external  form  of  Christianity  has  any 
chance  of  survival  three  hundred  years  hence,  it  will  have 
been  owing  to  the  appearance  meanwhile  of  some  extraordi- 
nary man  in  power,  who,  in  the  teeth  of  worldly  interests, 
or  rather  in  charitable  and  sage  inclusion  of  them,  shall  have 
proclaimed  that  the  time  had  arrived  for  living  in  the  flower 
of  Christian  charity,  instead  of  the  husks  and  thorns  which 
may  have  been  necessary  to  guard  it.  If  it  were  possible 
for  some  new  and  wonderful  pope  to  make  this  change,  and 
draw  a  line  between  these  two  Christian  epochs,  like  that 
between  the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  the  world  would  feel 
inclined  to  prostrate  itself  again  and  for  ever  at  the  feet  of 
Rome.  In  a  cathoHc  state  of  things  like  that,  delighted 
should  I  be,  for  one,  to  be  among  the  humblest  of  its  com- 
municants. How  beautifid  would  their  organs  be  then  ! 
how  ascending  to  an  unperplexing  Heaven  their  incense  ! 

♦  It  is  entitled,  "  Italy,  Austria,  and  the  Pope ;"  and  is  full,  not  only  of 
the  eloquence  of  zeal,  and  of  evidences  of  intellectual  power,  but  of  the  most 
curious  and  instructive  infonnution. 


xiv  PREFACE. 


how  unselfish   their  salvation  !    how  intelligible  their  talk 
about  justice  and  love  ! 

But  if  charity  (and  by  charity  I  do  not  mean  mere  tolera- 
tion, or  any  other  pretended  right  to  permit  others  to  have 
eyes  like  ourselves,  but  whatever  the  beautiful  Greek  word 
implies  of  good  and  lovely),  if  this  iruiy  and  only  divine  con- 
summation of  all  Christian  doctrine  be  not  thought  capable 
of  taking  a  form  of  belief  "  strong"  enough.  Superstition  must 
look  out  for  some  new  mode  of  dictation  altogether ;  for  the 
world  is  outgrowing  the  old. 


I  cannot,  in  gratitude  for  the  facilities  afforded  to  myself, 
as  well  as  for  a  more  obvious  and  public  reason,  dismiss  this 
Preface  without  congratulating  men  of  letters  on  the  estab- 
lishment and  increasing  prosperity  of  the  London  Library^ 
an  institution  founded  for  the  purpose  of  accommodating 
subscribers  with  such  books,  at  their  own  homes,  as  could 
only  be  consulted  hitherto  at  the  British  Museum.  The  sole 
objection  to  the  Museum  is  thus  done  away,  and  the  literary 
world  lias  a  fair  prospect  of  possessing  two  book-institutions 
instead  of  one,  each  with  its  distinct  claims  to  regard,  and  pre- 
senting in  combination  all  that  the  student  can  w^ish ;  for 
while  it  is  highly  desirable  that  authors  should  be  able  to  have 
standard  works  at  their  command,  when  sickness  or  other 
circumstances  render  it  impossible  for  them  to  ^^o  to  the  Mu- 
seum, it  is  undoubtedly  requisite  that  one  great  collection 
should  exist  in  which  they  are  sure  to  find  the  same  works 
unremoved,  in  case  of  necessity, — not  to  mention  curious  vol- 
umes of  all  sorts,  manuscripts,  and  a  world  of  books  of  reference. 


CONTENTS. 


DANTE. 

Critical  Notice  of  his  Life  and  Genius,  . 
The  Italian  Pilgrim's  Progress, 

The  Journey  through  Hell,       .... 

The  Journey  through  Purgatory, 

The  Journey  through  Heaven, 

PULCI. 

Critical  Notice  of  his  Life  and  Genius,  . 
Humours  of  Giants,  ..... 
The  Battle  of  Roncesvalles,      .         .        . 

BOL\RDO. 

Critical  Notice  of  his  Life  and  Genius,  . 
The  Adventures  of  Angelica,  .  .  . 
The  Death  of  Agrican,  .... 
The  Saracen  Friends,  .... 

Seeing  and  Believing,  .... 

ARIOSTO. 

Critical  Notice  of  his  Life  and  Genius,  . 
The  Adventures  of  Angelica,  (continued,) 
Part  I. — Angelica  and  her  Suitors, 
II. — Angelica  and  Medorc 
ni. — The  Jealousy  of  Orlando,      .  .         . 

AsTOLFo's  Journey  to  the  Moon, 
Ariodante  and  Ginevra,        .... 

Suspicion, 

Isabella,  


FAOE 

1 

45 

47 

89 

131 

167 

189 
207 

233 
249 
267 
275 
291 

299 

339 
339 
350 
3G0 

369 
381 
393 
401 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


TASSO. 

Critical  Notice  of  his  Life  and  Genius, 
Olindo  and  Sophronia, 
Tancred  and  Clorinda, 

RiNALDO    AND    ArMIDA,    ETC., 

Part  I. — Armida  in  the  Christian  Camp, 

II. — Armida's  Wrath  and  Love  with  Rinaldo, 
III. — Tancred  in  the  Enchanted  Forest, 
IV. — The  Loves  of  Rinaldo  and  Armida, 

v.— The  Disenchantment  of  the  Forest,  and  the  taking  of  Jerusalem, 

APPENDIX. 

No.  I. — Story  of  Paulo  and  Francesca, 

II. — Accounts  given  by  different  writers  of  the  circumstan- 
ces relating  to   Paulo   and   Francesca  ;  concluding 
with  the  only  facts  ascertained,        .... 

III. — Story  of  Ugolino,     ....  ... 

IV. — Picture  of  Florence  in  the  time  of  Dante's  Ancestors, 

V. — The  Death  of  Agrican, 

VI. — Angelica  and  Medoro, 

VII. — The  Jealousy  of  Orlando,      ...  .        . 

VIII. — The  Death  of  Clorinda,         .        .        .        .        i        . 

IX. — Tancred  in  the  Enchanted  Forest,      .... 


PAGH 

409 
461 
471 

483 
483 
490 
494 
498 
501 

519 


523 
526 
533 
535 
543 
552 
559 
561 


DANTE: 


Critiral  Notice  of  l)is  £ife  onir  ®enins. 


CRITICAL    NOTICE 


OF 


DANTE'S  LIFE  AND   GENIUS. 


Dante  was  a  very  great  poet,  a  man  of  the  strongest  passions, 
a  claimant  of  unbounded  powers  to  lead  and  enlighten  the  world  ; 
and  he  lived  in  a  semi-barbarous  age,  as  favourable  to  the  inten- 
sity of  his  imagination,  as  it  was  otherwise  to  the  rest  of  his  pre- 
tensions. Party  zeal,  and  the  fluctuations  of  moral  and  critical 
opinion,  have  at  diiferent  periods  over-rated  and  depreciated  his 
memory  ;  and  if,  in  the  following  attempt  to  form  its  just  estimate, 
I  have  found  myself  compelled,  in  some  important  respects,  to 
differ  with  preceding  writers,  and  to  protest  in  particular  against 
his  being  regarded  as  a  proper  teacher  on  any  one  point,  poetry 
excepted,  and  as  far  as  all  such  genius  and  energy  cannot  in 
some  degree  help  being,  I  have  not  been  the  less  sensible  of  the 
wonderful  nature  of  that  genius,  while  acting  within  the  circle  to 
which  it  belongs.  Dante  was  indeed  so  great  a  poet,  and  at  the 
same  time  exhibited  in  his  personal  character  such  a  mortifying 
exception  to  what  we  conceive  to  be  the  natural  wisdom  and  tem- 
per of  great  poets  ;  in  other  words,  he  was  such  a  bigoted  and 
exasperated  man,  and  sullied  his  imagination  with  so  much  that 

*  As  notices  of  Dante's  life  have  often  been  little  but  repetitions  of  former 
ones,  I  think  it  due  to  the  painstaking  character  of  this  volume  to  state,  that 
besides  consultinfj  various  commentators  and  critics,  from  Boccaccio  to  Frati- 
celli  and  others,  I  have  diligently  perused  the  Vita  di  Dante,  by  Cesare  IJalbo, 
with  Rocco's  annotations  ;  tlic  Histuire  Littcraire  d' Italic,  by  (iinguen(^  ;  tho 
Discorso  sul  Testo  delta  Commcdia,  by  Foscolo  ;  the  Atnori  e  Rime  di  Dante 
of  Arrivabene  ;  the  Veltro  Allegorico  di  Dante,  by  Troja  ;  and  Ozanam's 
Dante  et  la  Philosophic  Catholique  au  Treizieme  Siecle. 

2 


DANTE. 


is  contradictory  to  good  feeling,  in  matters  divine  as  well  as  hu- 
man ;  that  I  should  not  have  thought  myself  justified  in  assisting, 
however  humbly,  to  extend  the  influence  of  his  writings,  had  I 
not  believed  a  time  to  have  arrived,  when  the  community  may 
profit  both  from  the  marvels  of  his  power  and  the  melancholy  ab- 
surdity of  its  contradictions. 

Dante  Alighieri,  who  has  always  been  known  by  his  Christian 
rather  than  surname  (partly  owing  to  the  Italian  predilection  for 
Christian  names,  and  partly  to  the  unsettled  state  of  patronymics 
in  his  time),  was  the  son  of  a  lawyer  of  good  family  in  Florence, 
and  was  born  in  that  city  on  the  14th  of  May  1265  (sixty-three 
years  before  the  birth  of  Chaucer).  The  stock  is  said  to  have 
been  of  Roman  origin,  of  the  race  of  the  Frangipani ;  but  the 
only  certain  trace  of  it  is  to  Cacciaguida,  a  Florentine  cavalier  of 
the  house  of  the  Elisei,  who  died  in  the  Crusades.  Dante  gives 
an  account  of  him  in  his  Faradiso*  Cacciaguida  married  a 
lady  of  the  Alighieri  family  of  the  Valdipado  ;  and,  giving  the 
name  to  one  of  his  children,  they  subsequently  retained  it  as  a 
patronymic  in  preference  to  their  own.  It  would  appear,  from 
the  same  poem,  not  only  that  the  Alighieri  were  the  more  impor- 
tant house,  but  that  some  blot  had  darkened  the  scutcheon  of  the 
Elisei ;  perhaps  their  having  been  poor,  and  transplanted  (as  he 
seems  to  imply)  from  some  disreputable  district.  Perhaps  they 
were  known  to  have  been  of  ignoble  origin  ;  for,  in  the  course 
of  one  of  his  most  philosophical  treatises,  he  bursts  into  an  extra- 
ordinary ebullition  of  ferocity  against  such  as  adduce  a  know- 
ledge of  that  kind  as  an  argument  against  a  family's  acquired 
nobility  ;  affirming  that  such  brutal  stuff  should  be  answered  not 
with  words,  but  with  the  dagger. f  The  Elisei,  however,  must 
have  been  of  some  standing ;  for  Macchiavelli,  in  his  History  of 
Florence,  mentions  them  in  his  list  of  the  early  Guelph  and  Ghi- 

*  Canto  XV.  88. 

t  For  the  donht  apparently  implied  respecting  the  district,  see  canto  xvi.  43, 
or  the  summary  of  it  in  the  present  volume.     The  following  is  the  passage  al- 
luded to  in  the  philosophical  treatise  :  "  Risponder  si  vorrebbe,  non  colle  parole, , 
ma  col  coltello,  a  tanta  bestiality."— .Convz7o,—0;?cre  Minori,  12mo.  Fir.  1834, , 
vol.  ii.  p.  432.     "  Beautiful  mode"  (says  Perticeri  in  a  note)  "  of  settling  ques-  ■ 
tions." 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS. 


belline  parties,  whero  the  side  whicli  they  take  is  different  from 
that  of  tlie  poet's  immediate  progenitors.*  The  arms  of  the 
Alighieri  (probably  occasioned  by  the  change  in  that  name,  for  it 
was  previously  written  Aldighieri)  are  interesting  on  account  of 
their  poetical  and  aspiring  character.  They  are  a  golden  wing 
on  a  field  azure. f 

It  is  generally  supposed  that  the  name  Dante  is  an  abbreviation 
of  Durante  ;  but  this  is  not  certain,  though  the  poet  had  a 
nephew  so  called.  Dante  is  the  name  he  goes  by  in  the  gravest 
records,  in  law-proceedings,  in  his  epitaph,  in  the  mention  of  him 
put  by  himself  into  the  mouth  of  a  blessed  spirit.  Boccaccio  in- 
timates that  he  was  christened  Dante,  and  derives  the  name  from 
the  ablative  case  of  dans  (giving) — a  probable  etymology,  espe- 
cially for  a  Christian  appellation.  As  an  abbreviation  of  Du- 
rante, it  would  correspond  in  familiarity  with  the  Ben  of  Ben 
Jonson — a  diminutive  that  would  assuredly  not  have  been  used 
by  grave  people  on  occasions  like  those  mentioned,  though  a  wit 
of  the  day  gave  the  masons  a  shilling  to  carve  "  O  rare  Ben 
Jonson  !"  on  his  grave-stone.  On  the  other  hand,  if  given  at  the 
font,  the  name  of  Ben  would  have  acquired  all  the  legal  gravity 
of  Benjamin.  In  the  English  Navy  List,  not  long  ago,  one  of 
our  gallant  admirals  used  to  figure  as  "  Billy  Douglas." 

Of  the  mother  of  Dante  nothing  is  known  except  that  she  was 


*  Istorie  Fiorentine,  ii.  43  (in  Tutte  le  Opere,  4to.,  1550). 

t  The  name  has  been  varied  into  Allagheri,  Aligieri,  Alleghieri,  Alligheri, 
Aligeri,  witli  the  accent  generally  on  the  third,  but  sometimes  on  the  second 
syllable.  See  Foscolo,  Discorso  sul  Teslo,  p.  432.  He  says,  that  in  Verona, 
where  descendants  of  tiie  poet  survive,  they  call  it  Aligeri.  But  names,  like 
other  words,  often  wander  so  far  from  their  source,  that  it  is  impossible  to  as- 
certain it.  Who  would  suppose  that  Pomfret  came  from  Pontefract,  or  wig 
from  panucca  ?  Coats  of  arms, unless  in  very  special  instances,  prove  nothing 
but  the  whims  of  the  heralds. 

Those  who  like  to  hear  of  anything  in  connexion  with  Dante  or  his  name, 
may  find  something  to  stir  their  fancies  in  the  following  grim  significations  of 
the  word  in  the  dictionaries  : 

"  Dante,  a  kind  of  great  wild  beast  in  Africa,  that  hath  a  very  hard  skin." 
— Florio's  Dictionary,  edited  by  Torreggiano. 

"  Dante,  an  animal  called  otherwise  the  Great  Beast."-  Vocaholario  della 
Crusca,  Compendiato,  Ven.  172.'. 


DANTE. 


his  father's  second  wife,  and  that  her  Christian  name  was  Bella, 
or  perhaps  surname  Bello.  It  might,  however,  be  conjectured, 
from  the  remarkable  and  only  opportunity  which  our  author  has 
taken  of  alluding  to  her,  that  he  derived  his  disdainful  character 
rather  from  his  mother  than  father.*  The  father  appears  to  have 
died  during  the  boyhood  of  his  illustrious  son. 

The  future  poet,  before  he  had  completed  his  ninth  year,  con- 
ceived a  romantic  attachment  to  a  little  lady  who  had  just  entered 
hers,  and  who  has  attained  a  celebrity  of  which  she  was  destined 
to  know  nothing.  This  was  the  famous  Beatrice  Portinari, 
daughter  of  a  rich  Florentine  who  founded  more  than  one  char- 
itable institution.  She  married  another  man,  and  died  in  her 
youth  ;  but  retained  the  Platonical  homage  of  her  young  admirer, 
living  and  dead,  and  became  the  heroine  of  his  great  poem. 

It  is  unpleasant  to  reduce  any  portion  of  a  romance  to  the 
events  of  ordinary  life  ;  but  with  the  exception  of  those  who 
merely  copy  from  one  another,  there  has  been  such  a  conspiracy 
on  the  part  of  Dante's  biographers  to  overlook  at  least  one  disen- 
chanting conclusion  to  be  drawn  to  that  effect  from  the  poet's 
own  writings,  that  the  probable  truth  of  the  matter  must  here  for 
the  first  time  be  stated.  The  case,  indeed,  is  clear  enough  from 
his  account  of  it.  The  natural  tendencies  of  a  poetical  tempera- 
ment (oftener  evinced  in  a  like  manner  than  the  world  in  general 
suppose)  not  only  made  the  boy-poet  fall  in  love,  but,  in  the  truly 
Elysian  state  of  the  heart  at  that  innocent  and  adoring  time  of 
life,  made  him  fancy  he  had  discovered  a  goddess  in  the  object 
of  his  love  ;  and  strength  of  purpose  as  well  as  imagination 
made  him  grow  up  in  the  fancy.  He  disclosed  himself,  as  time 
advanced,  only  by  his  manner — received  complacent  recognitions 
in  company  from  the  young  lady — offended  her  by  seeming  to 
devote  himself  to  another  (see  the  poem  in  the  Vita  Nuova,  begin- 
ning "  Ballata  io  vo") — rendered  himself  the  sport  of  her  and  her 
young  friends  by  his  adoring  timidity  (see  the  5th  and  6th  son- 
nets in  the  same  work) — in  short,  constituted  her  a  paragon  of 

*  See  the  passage  in  "  Hell,"  where  Virgil,  to  express  his  enthusiastic  appro- 
bation of  the  scorn  and  cruelty  which  Dante  shews  to  one  of  the  condemned, 
embraces  and  kisses  him  for  a  right  "  disdainful  soul,"  and  blesses  the  "  mother 
that  bore  him." 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS. 


perfection,  and  enabled  her,  by  so  doing,  to  shew  that  she  was 
none.  He  says,  that  finding  himself  unexpectedly  near  her  one 
day  in  company,  he  trembled  so,  and  underwent  such  change  of 
countenance,  that  many  of  the  ladies  present  began  to  laugh  with 
her  about  him — "«'  gahbavano  di  we."     And  he  adds,  in  verse, 

"  Con  r  altre  donno  mia  vista  gabbate, 

E  non  pensate,  donna,  onde  si  mova 

Ch'  io  vi  rassembri  si  figura  nova, 
Quando  riguardo  la  vostra  beltate,"  &lc. — Son.  5. 

"  You  laugh  with  the  other  ladies  to  see  how  I  look  (literally, 
you  mock  my  appearance)  ;  and  do  not  think,  lady,  what  it  is 
that  renders  me  so  strange  a  figure  at  sight  of  your  beauty." 

And  in  the  sonnet  that  follows,  he  accuses  her  of  preventing  pity 
of  him  in  others,  by  such  "  killing  mockery"  as  makes  him  wish 
for  death  ("  la  pieta,  che  'I  vosiro  gabbo  recinde,''  &c.)* 

Now,  it  is  to  be  admitted,  that  a  young  lady,  if  she  is  not  very 
wise,  may  laugh  at  her  lover  with  her  companions,  and  yet  re- 
turn his  love,  after  her  fashion  ;  but  the  fair  Portinari  laughs  and 
marries  another.  Some  less  melancholy  face,  some  more  intel- 
ligible courtship,  triumphed  over  the  questionable  flattery  of  the 
poet's  gratuitous  worship  ;  and  the  idol  of  Dante  Alighieri  be- 
came the  wife  of  Mcsser  Simone  de'  Bardi.  Not  a  word  does  he 
say  on  that  mortifying  point.  It  transpired  from  a  clause  in  her 
father's  will.  And  yet  so  bent  are  the  poet's  biographers  on 
leaving  a  romantic  doubt  in  one's  mind,  whether  Beatrice  may 
not  have  returned  his  passion,  that  not  only  do  all  of  them  (as  far 
as  I  have  observed)  agree  in  taking  no  notice  of  these  sonnets, 
but  the  author  of  the  treatise  entitled  Dante  and  the  Catholic 
Philosophy  of  the  Thirteenth  Century,  "  in  spite"  (as  a  critic 
says)  "  of  the  Beatrice,  his  daughter,  wife  of  Messer  Simone  de' 
Bardi,  of  the  paternal  will,"  describes  her  as  dying  in  "  all  the 
lustre  of  virginity.""}"     The  assumption  appears  to  be  thus  glo- 

»  Operr  Minori,  vol.  iii.  12,  Flor.  1839,  pp.  292,  &c. 

t  "  Beatrix  quitta  la  tcrre  dans  tout  I'dclat  de  la  jeunesse  et  de  la  virginity." 
See  the  work  as  above  entitled,  Paris,  1840,  p.  60.  The  words  in  liatin,  aa 
quoted  from  the  will  by  the  critic  alluded  to  in  the  Foreign  Quarterly  Review 
(No.  G5,  art.  Dante  Allighieri),  are,  "  Bici  filiee  suae  et  uxori  D.  (Domini) 


DANTE. 


riously  stated,  as  a  counterpart  to  the  notoriety  of  its  untruth.  It 
must  be  acknowledged  that  Dante  himself  gave  the  cue  to  it  by 
more  than  silence  ;  for  he  not  only  vaunts  her  acquaintance  in 
the  next  world,  but  assumes  that  she  returns  his  love  in  that  re- 
gion, as  if  no  such  person  as  her  husband  could  have  existed,  or 
as  if  he  himself  had  not  been  married  also.  This  life-long  per- 
tinacity of  will  is  illustrative  of  his  whole  career. 

Meantime,  though  the  young  poet's  father  had  died,  nothing 
was  wanting  on  the  part  of  his  guardians,  or  perhaps  his  mother, 
to  furnish  him  with  an  excellent  education.  It  was  so  complete, 
as  to  enable  him  to  become  master  of  all  the  knowledge  of  his 
time  ;  and  he  added  to  this  learning  more  than  a  taste  for  draw- 
ing and  music.  He  speaks  of  himself  as  drawing  an  angel  in 
his  tablets  on  the  first  anniversary  of  Beatrice's  death.*  One  of 
his  instructors  was  Brunetto  Latini,  the  most  famous  scholar  then 
living  ;  and  he  studied  both  at  the  universities  of  Padua  and  Bo- 
logna. At  eighteen,  perhaps  sooner,  he  had  shewn  such  a  genius 
for  poetry  as  to  attract  the  friendship  of  Guido  Cavalcante,  a 
young  noble  of  a  philosophical  as  well  as  poetical  turn  of  mind, 
who  has  retained  a  reputation  with  posterity  :  and  it  was  probably 
at  the  same  time  he  became  acquainted  with  Giotto,  who  drew 
his  likeness,  and  with  Casella,  the  musician,  whom  he  greets  with 
so  much  tenderness  in  the  other  world. 

Nor  were  his  duties  as  a  citizen  forgotten.  The  year  before 
Beatrice's  death,  he  was  at  the  battle  of  Campaldino,  which  his 
countrymen  gained  against  the  people  of  Arezzo  ;  and  the  year 
after  it  he  was  present  at  the  taking  of  Caprona  from  the  Pisans. 
It  has  been  supposed  that  he  once  studied  medicine  with  a  view 
to  it  as  a  profession  ;  but  the  conjecture  probably  originated  in 
nothing  more  than  his  having  entered  himself  of  one  of  the  city- 
companies  (which  happened  to  be  the  medical)  for  the  purpose  of 

Simonis  de  Bardis."  "  Bici"  is  the  Latin  dative  case  of  Bice,  the  abbreviation 
of  Beatrice.  This  employment,  by  the  way,  of  an  abbreviated  name  in  a 
will,  may  seem  to  go  counter  to  the  deductions  respecting  the  name  of  Dante. 
And  it  may  really  do  so.  Yet  a  will  is  not  an  epitaph,  nor  the  address  of  a 
beatified  spirit ;  neither  is  equal  familiarity  perhaps  implied,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  in  the  abbreviated  names  of  male  and  female. 
*  Vita  Nuova,  ut  sup.  p.  343. 


HIS    LIFE   AND   GENIUS. 


qutilifying  himself  to  accept  office  ;  a  condition  exacted  of  the 
gentry  by  the  then  democratic  tendencies  of  the  republic.  It  is 
asserted  also,  by  an  early  conniientator,  that  he  entered  the  Fran- 
ciscan order  of  friars,  but  quitted  it  before  he  was  professed  ;  and, 
indeed,  the  circumstance  is  not  unlikely,  considering  his  agitated 
and  impatient  turn  of  mind.  Perhaps  he  fancied  that  he  had 
done  with  the  world  when  it  lost  the  wife  of  Simone  de'  Bardi. 

Weddings  that  might  have  taken  place,  but  do  not,  are  like  the 
reigns  of  deceased  heirs-apparent ;  every  thing  is  assumable  in 
their  favour,  checked  only  by  the  histories  of  husbands  and  kings. 
A\'ould  the  great  but  splenetic  poet  have  made  an  angel  and  a 
saint  of  Beatrice,  had  he  married  her  ?  He  never  utters  the 
name  of  the  woman  whom  he  did  marry. 

Gemma  Donati  was  a  kinswoman  of  the  powerful  fairdly  of 
that  name.  It  seems  not  improbable,  from  some  passages  in  his 
works,  that  she  was  the  young  lady  whom  he  speaks  of  as  taking 
pity  on  him  on  account  of  his  passion  for  Beatrice  ;*  and  in  com- 
mon justice  to  his  feelings  as  a  man  and  a  gentleman,  it  is  surely 
to  be  concluded,  that  he  felt  some  sort  of  passion  for  his  bride,  if 
not  of  a  very  spiritual  sort ;  though  he  afterwards  did  not  scruple 
to  intimate  that  he  was  ashamed  of  it,  and  Beatrice  is  made  to 
rebuke  him  in  the  other  world  for  thinking  of  any  body  after  her- 
self, f     At  any  rate,  he  probably  roused  what  was  excitable  in 

*  Vita  Nuova,  p.  345. 

t  In  the  article  on  Dante,  in  the  Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  (ut  supra), 
the  exordium  of  which  made  me  hope  that  the  eloquent  and  assumption-de- 
nouncing writer  was  going  to  supply  a  good  final  account  of  his  author,  equally 
satisfactory  for  its  feeling  and  its  facts,  but  which  ended  in  little  better  than  the 
customary  gratuitousness  of  wholesale  panegyric,  I  was  surprised  to  find  the 
xuiion  with  Gemma  Donati  characterised  as  "  calm  and  cold, — rather  the  ac- 
complishment of  a  social  duty  than  the  result  of  an  irresistible  impulse  of  the 
heart,"  p.  15.  The  accomplishment  of  the  "social  duty"  is  an  assumption, 
not  very  probable  with  regard  to  any  body,  and  much  less  so  in  a  fiery  Italian 
of  twenty-six  ;  but  the  addition  of  the  epithets,  ''  calm  and  cold,"  gives  it  a 
sort  of  horror.  A  reader  of  this  article,  evidently  the  production  of  a  man  of 
ability  but  of  great  wilfuhiess,  is  tempted  to  express  the  disappointment  it  has 
given  him  in  plainer  tenus  than  might  be  wished,  in  consequence  of  the  extra- 
ordinary license  which  its  writer  does  not  scruple  to  allow  to  his  own  fancies, 
in  expressing  liis  opinion  of  what  he  is  pleased  to  think  the  fancies  of  others. 


8  DANTE. 


his  wife's  temper,  with  provocations  from  his  own  ;  for  the  nature 
of  the  latter  is  not  to  be  doubted,  whereas  there  is  nothing  but 
tradition  to  shew  for  the  bitterness  of  hers.  Foscolo  is  of  opinion 
that  the  tradition  itself  arose  simply  from  a  rhetorical  flourish  of 
Boccaccio's,  in  his  Life  of  Dante,  against  the  marriages  of  men 
of  letters ;  though  Boccaccio  himself  expressly  adds,  that  he 
knows  nothing  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  poet's  wife,  except  that 
her  husband,  after  quitting  Florence,  would  never  either  come 
where  she  was,  or  suffer  her  to  come  to  him,  mother  as  she  was 
by  him  of  so  many  children  ; — a  statement,  it  must  be  confessed, 
not  a  little  encouraging  to  the  tradition.*  Be  this  as  it  may, 
Dante  married  in  his  twenty-sixth  year  ;  wrote  an  adoring  ac- 
count of  his  first  love  (the  Vita  Nuova)  in  his  twenty-eighth  ; 
and  among  the  six  children  which  Gemma  brought  him,  had  a 
daughter  whom  he  named  Beatrice,  in  honour,  it  is  understood, 
of  the  fair  Portinari ;  which  surely  was  either  a  very  great  com- 
pliment, or  no  mean  trial  to  the  temper  of  the  mother.  We  shall 
see  presently  how  their  domestic  intercourse  was  interrupted,  and 
what  absolute  uncertainty  there  is  respecting  it,  except  as  far  as 
conclusions  may  be  di-awn  from  his  own  temper  and  history. 

Italy,  in  those  days,  was  divided  into  the  parties  of  Guelphs 
and  Ghibellines ;  the  former,  the  advocates  of  general  church- 
ascendancy  and  local  government ;  the  latter,  of  the  pretensions 
of  the  Emperor  of  Germany,  who  claimed  to  be  the  Roman 
Caesar,  and  paramount  over  the  Pope.  In  Florence,  the  Guelphs 
had  for  a  long  time  been  so  triumphant  as  to  keep  the  Ghibellines 
in  a  state  of  banishment.  Dante  was  born  and  bred  a  Guelph  : 
he  had  twice  borne  arms  for  his  country  against  Ghibelline 
neighbours ;  and  now,  at  the  age  of  thirty-five,  in  the  ninth  of 


*  "  Le  invettive  contr'  essa  per  tanti  secoli  originarono  dalla  enumerazione 
rettorica  del  Boccaccio  di  tiitti  gli  inconvenienti  del  matrimonio,  e  dove  per  al- 
tro  ei  dichiara, — *  Certo  io  non  affermo  queste  cose  a  Dante  essere  avvenute, 
che  non  lo  so ;  comechfe  vero  sia,  che  o  a  simili  cose  a  queste,  o  ad  altro  che 
ne  fusse  cagione,  egli  una  volta  da  lei  partitosi,  che  per  consolazione  de'  suoi 
affanni  gli  era  stata  data,  mai  nfe  dove  ella  fusse  voile  venire,  ne  sofFerse  che 
dove  egli  fusse  ella  venisse  giammai,  con  tutto  che  di  piu  figliuoli  egli  insieme 
con  lei  fusse  parente.'  " — Discorso  sul  Testo,  ut  sup.  Londra,  Pickering, 
1825,  p.  184, 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  9 

his  marriage,  and  last  of  his  residence  with  his  wife,  he  was  ap- 
pointed chief  of  the  temporary  administrators  of  ailairs,  called 
Priors ; — functionaries  who  held  office  only  tor  two  months. 

Unfortunately,  at  that  moment,  his  party  had  become  subdivi- 
ded into  the  factions  of  the  Whites  and  Blacks,  or  adherents  of 
two  different  sides  in  a  dispute  that  took  place  in  Pistoia.  The 
consequences  becoming  serious,  the  Blacks  proposed  to  bring  in, 
as  mediator,  the  French  Prince,  Charles  of  Valois,  then  in  arms 
for  the  Pope  against  the  Emperor ;  but  the  Whites,  of  whom 
Dante  was  one,  were  hostile  to  the  measure  ;  and  in  order  to  pre- 
vent it,  he  and  his  brother  magistrates  expelled  for  a  time  the 
heads  of  both  factions,  to  the  satisfaction  of  neither.  The  Whites 
accused  them  of  secretly  leaning  to  the  Ghibellines,  and  the 
Blacks  of  openly  favouring  the  Whites ;  who  being,  indeed,  al- 
lowed to  come  back  before  their  time,  on  the  alleged  ground  of 
the  unwholesomeness  of  their  place  of  exile,  which  was  fatal  to 
Dante's  friend  Cavalcante,  gave  a  colour  to  the  charge.  Dante 
answered  it  by  saying,  that  he  had  then  quitted  office ;  but  he 
could  not  show  that  he  had  lost  his  influence.  Meantime,  Charles 
was  still  urged  to  interfere,  and  Dante  was  sent  ambassador  to 
the  Pope  to  obtain  his  disapprobation  of  the  interfej-ence ;  but  the 
Pope  (Boniface  the  Eighth),  who  had  probably  discovered  that 
the  Whites  had  ceased  to  care  for  any  thing  but  their  own  dis- 
putes, and  who,  at  all  events,  did  not  like  their  objection  to  his 
representative,  beguiled  the  ambassador  and  encouraged  the 
French  prince ;  the  Blacks,  in  consequence,  regained  their  as- 
cendancy ;  and  the  luckless  poet,  during  his  absence,  was  de- 
nounced as  a  corrupt  administrator  of  alTairs,  guilty  of  pecula- 
tion ;  was  severely  mulcted  ;  banished  from  Tuscany  for  two 
years ;  and  subsequently,  for  contumaciousness,  was  sentenced 
to  be  burnt  alive,  in  case  he  returned  ever.     He  never  did  return. 

From  that  day  forth,  Dante  never  beheld  again  his  home  or  his 
wife.  Her  relations  obtained  possession  of  power,  but  no  use 
was  made  of  it  except  to  keep  him  in  exile.  He  had  not  accord- 
ed with  them  ;  and  perhaps  half  the  secret  of  his  conjugal  dis- 
comfort was  owing  to  politics.  It  is  the  opinion  of  some,  that  the 
married  couple  were  not  sorry  to  part ;  others  think  that  the  wife 
remained   behind,  solely   to  scrape  together  what  property  she 


10  DANTE. 


could,  and  bring  up  the  children.  All  that  is  known  is,  that  she 
never  lived  with  him  more. 

Dante  now  certainly  did  what  his  enemies  had  accused  him  of 
wishing  to  do  :  he  joined  the  old  exiles  whom  he  had  helped  to 
make  such,  the  party  of  the  Ghibellines.  He  alleges,  that  he 
never  was  really  of  any  party  but  his  own ;  a  naive  confession, 
probably  true  in  one  sense,  considering  his  scorn  of  other  people, 
his  great  intellectual  superiority,  and  the  large  views  he  had  for 
the  whole  Italian  people.  And,  indeed,  he  soon  quarrelled  in 
private  with  the  individuals  composing  his  new  party,  however 
staunch  he  apparently  remained  to  their  cause.  His  former  as- 
sociates he  had  learnt  to  hate  for  their  differences  with  him  and 
for  their  self-seeking ;  he  hated  the  Pope  for  deceiving  him  ;  he 
hated  the  Pope's  French  allies  for  being  his  allies,  and  interfer- 
ing with  Florence  ;  and  he  had  come  to  love  the  Emperor  for  be- 
ing hated  by  them  all,  and  for  holding  out  (as  he  fancied)  the  only 
chance  of  reuniting  Italy  to  their  confusion,  and  making  her  the 
restorer  of  himself,  and  the  mistress  of  the  world. 

With  these  feelings  in  his  heart,  no  money  in  his  purse,  and  no 
place  in  which  to  lay  his  head,  except  such  as  chance-patrons  af- 
forded him,  he  now  began  to  wander  over  Italy,  like  some  lonely 
lion  of  a  man,  "grudging  in  his  great  disdain."  At  one  moment 
he  was  conspiring  and  hoping  ;  at  another,  despairing  and  en- 
deavouring to  conciliate  his  beautiful  Florence  :  now  again  catch- 
ing hope  from  some  new  movement  of  the  Emperor's ;  and  then, 
not  very  handsomely  threatening  and  re-abusing  her  ;  but  always 
pondering  and  grieving,  or  trying  to  appease  his  thoughts  with 
some  composition,  chiefly  of  his  great  work.  It  is  conjectured, 
that  whenever  anything  particularly  affected  him,  whether  with 
joy  or  sorrow,  he  put  it,  hot  with  the  impression,  into  his  "  sacred 
poem."  Every  body  who  jarred  against  his  sense  of  right  or  his 
prejudices  he  sent  to  the  infernal  regions,  friend  or  foe  :  the 
strangest  people  who  sided  with  them  (but  certainly  no  personal 
foe)  he  exalted  to  heaven.  *He  encouraged,  if  not  personally  as- 
sisted, two  ineffectual  attempts  of  the  Ghibellines  against  Flor- 
ence ;  wrote,  besides  his  great  work,  a  book  of  mixed  prose  and 
poetry  on  "  Love  and  Virtue"  (the  Convito,  or  Banquet) ;  a 
Latin  treatise  on  Monarchy  {de  Monarckia),  recommending  the 


HIS    LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  H 


"divine  right"  of  the  Emperor  ;  another  in  two  parts,  and  in  the 
same  language,  on  the  Vernacular  Tongue  (de  Vulgari  Eloquio); 
and  learnt  to  know  meanwhile,  as  he  affectingly  tells  us,  "  how 
hard  it  was  to  climb  other  people's  stairs,  a^id  how  salt  the  taste 
of  bread  is  that  is  not  our  own."  It  is  even  thought  not  improb- 
able, from  one  awful  passage  of  his  poem,  that  he  may  have 
"  placed  himself  in  some  public  way,"  and,  "  stripping  his  vis- 
age of  all  shame,  and  trembling  in  his  very  vitals,"  have  stretched 
out  his  hand  "  for  charity'"* — an  image  of  suffering,  which, 
proud  as  he  was,  yet  considering  how  great  a  man,  is  almost 
enough  to  make  one's  common  nature  stoop  down  for  pardon  at 
his  feet ;  and  yet  he  should  first  prostrate  himself  at  the  feet  of 
that  nature  for  his  outrages  on  God  and  man. 

Several  of  the  princes  and  feudal  chieftains  of  Italy  enter- 
tained the  poet  for  a  while  in  their  houses  ;  but  genius  and 
worldly  power,  unless  for  worldly  purposes,  find  it  difficult  to  ac- 
cord, especially  in  tempers  like  his.  There  must  be  great  wis- 
dom and  amiableness  on  both  sides  to  save  them  from  jealousy  of 
one  another's  pretensions.  Dante  was  not  the  man  to  give  and  take 
in  such  matters  on  equal  terms  ;  and  hence  he  is  at  one  time  in 
a  palace,  and  at  another  in  a  solitude.  Now  he  is  in  Sienna,  now 
in  Arezzo,  now  in  Bologna ;  then  probably  in  Verona  with  Can 
Grande's  elder  brother  ;  then  (if  we  are  to  believe  those  who  have 
tracked  his  steps)  in  Casentino  ;  then  with  the  Marchese  Moroello 
Malaspina  in  Lunigiana  ;  then  with  the  great  Ghibelline  chief- 
tain Faggiuola  in  the  mountains  near  Urbino ;  then  in  Romagna, 
in  Padua,  in  Paris  (arguing  with  the  churchmen),  some  say  in 
Germany,  and  at  Oxford  ;  then  again  in  Italy  ;  in  Lucca  (where 
he  is  supposed  to  have  relapsed  from  his  fidelity  to  Beatrice  in 
favour  of  a  certain  "  Gentucca") ;  then  again  in  Verona  with 
the  new  prince,  the  famous  Can  Grande  (where  his  sarcasms  ap- 
pear to  have  lost  him  a  doubtful  hospitality)  ;  then  in  a  monas- 
tery in  the  mountains  of  Umbria  ;  in  Udine  ;  in  Ravenna  ;  and 
there  at  length  he  put  up  for  the  rest  of  his  life  with  his  last  and 
best  friend,  Guido  Novello  da  Polenta,  not  the  father,  but  the 
nephew  of  the  hapless  Francesca. 

*  Foscolo,  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  vol.  xxx.  p.  351. 


12  DANTE. 


It  was  probably  in  the  middle   period  of  his  exile,  that  in  one 
of  the  moments  of  his  greatest  longing  for  his  native  country,  he 
wrote  that  affecting  passage  in  the  Convito,  which  was  evidently 
a  direct  effort  at  conciliation.     Excusing  himself  for  some  harsh- 
ness and  obscurity  in  the  style  of  that  work,  he  exclaims,  "  Ah  ! 
would  it  had  pleased  the  Dispenser  of  all  things  that  this  excuse 
had  never  been  needed  ;  that  neither  others  had  done  me  wrong, 
nor  myself  undergone  penalty  undeservedly — the  penalty,  I  say, 
of  exile  and  of  poverty.     For  it  pleased  the  citizens  of  the  fair- 
est  and  most  renowned  daughter  of  Rome — Florence — to  cast  me 
out  of  her  m^ost  sweet  bosom,  where  I  was  born,  and  bred,  and 
passed  half  of  the  life  of  man,  and  in  which,  with  her  good  leave, 
I  still  desire  with  all  my  heart  to  repose  my  weary  spirit,  and 
finish  the   days  allotted   me  ;   and  so  I  have  wandered  in  almost 
every  place  to  which  our  language  extends,  a  stranger,  almost  a 
beggar,   exposing   against  my  will  the  wounds  given  me  by  for- 
tune, too  often  unjustly  imputed  to  the  sufferer's  fault.     Truly  I 
have  been  a  vessel  without  sail  and  without  rudder,  driven  about 
upon  different  ports  and  shores  by  the  dry  wind  that  springs  out 
of  dolorous  poverty  ;   and  hence  have  I  appeared  vile  in  the  eyes 
of  many,  who,  perhaps,  by  some  better  report  had  conceived  of 
me  a  different   impression,  and  in   whose  sight  not  only  has  my 
person  become  thus  debased,  but  an  unworthy  opinion  created  of 
every  thing  which  I  did,  or  which  I  had  to  do."* 

*  "  Ahi  piaciuto  fosse  al  Dispensatore  dell'  universo,  che  la  cagione  della 
mia  scusa  mai  non  fosse  stata ;  che  ne  altri  contro  a  me  avria  fallato,  ne  io 
soflferto  avrei  pena  ingiustamente ;  pena,  dico,  d'  esilio  e  di  pov  ert^.  Poich6 
fu  piacere  de'  cittadini  della  bellissima  e  famosissima  figlia  di  Roma,  Fiorenza, 
di  gettarmi  fuori  del  sue  dolcissimo  seno  (nel  quale  nato  e  nudrito  fui  sino  al 
colmo  della  mia  vita,  e  nel  quale,  con  buona  pace  di  quella,  desidero  con  tutto  il 
core  di  riposare  1'  animo  stance,  e  terminare  il  tempo  che  m'  b  dato  )  ;  per  le 
parti  quasi  tutte,  alle  quali  questa  lingua  si  stende,  peregrine,  quasi  mendican> 
do,  sono  andato,  mostrando  contro  a  mia  voglia  la  piaga  della  fortuna,  che  suole 
ingiustamente  al  piagato  molte  volte  essere  imputata.  Veramente  io  sono 
state  legno  sanza  vela  e  sanza  governo,  portato  a  diversi  porti  e  foci  e  liti  dal 
vento  secco  che  vapora  la  dolorosa  poverty, ;  e  sono  vile  apparito  agli  occhi  a 
molti,  che  forse  per  alcuna  fama  in  altra  forma  mi  aveano  immaginato  ;  nel 
cospetto  de'  quali  non  solamente  mia  persona  invilib,  ma  di  minor  pregio  si  fece 
ogni  opera,  si  gi^  fatta,  come  quella  che  fosse  a  fare." — Opere  Minori,  ut 
sup.  vol.  ii.  p.  20. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  13 

How  simply  and  strongly  written  !  How  full  of  the  touching 
yet  undegrading  commiseration  which  adversity  has  a  right  to 
take  upon  itself,  when  accompanied  with  the  consciousness  of 
manly  endeavour  and  a  good  motive  !  How  could  such  a  man 
condescend  at  other  times  to  rage  with  abuse,  and  to  delight  him- 
self in  images  of  infernal  torment ! 

The  dates  of  these  fluctuations  of  feeling  towards  his  native 
city  are  not  known ;  but  it  is  supposed  to  have  been  not  very  long 
before  his  abode  with  Can  Grande  that  he  received  permission  to 
return  to  Florence,  on  conditions  which  he  justly  refused  and  re- 
sented in  the  following  noble  letter  to  a  kinsman.  The  old  spell- 
ing of  the  original  (in  the  note)  is  retained  as  given  by  Foscolo 
in  the  article  on  "Dante"  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  (vol.  xxx. 
no.  60) ;  and  I  have  retained  also,  with  little  difference,  the  trans- 
lation which  accompanies  it : 

"  From  your  letter,  which  I  received  with  due  respect  and  af- 
fection, I  observe  how  much  you  have  at  heart  my  restoration  to 
my  country.  I  am  bound  to  you  the  more  gratefully,  inasmuch 
as  an  exile  rarely  finds  a  friend.  But  after  mature  consideration, 
I  must,  by  my  answer,  disappoint  the  wishes  of  some  little  minds ; 
and  I  confide  in  the  judgment  to  which  your  impartiality  and 
prudence  will  lead  you.  Your  nephew  and  mine  has  written  to 
me,  what  indeed  had  been  mentioned  by  many  other  friends,  that 
by  a  decree  concerning  the  exiles,  I  am  allowed  to  return  to 
Florence,  provided  I  pay  a  certain  sum  of  money,  and  submit  to 
the  humiliation  of  asking  and  receiving  absolution  :  wherein,  my 
father,  I  see  two  propositions  that  are  ridiculous  and  impertinent. 
I  speak  of  the  impertinence  of  those  who  mention  such  conditions 
to  me  ;  for  in  your  letter,  dictated  by  judgment  and  discretion, 
there  is  no  such  thing.  Is  such  an  invitation,  then,  to  return  to 
his  country  glorious  to  d.  all.  (Dante  AUighieri),  after  suffering 
in  exile  almost  fifteen  years  ?  Is  it  thus  they  would  recompense 
innocence  which  all  the  world  knows,  and  the  labour  and  fatigue 
of  unremitting  study  ?  Far  from  the  man  who  is  familiar  with 
philosophy  be  the  senseless  baseness  of  a  heart  of  earth,  that 
could  act  like  a  little  sciolist,  and  imitate  the  infamy  of  some 
others,  by  offering  himself  up  as  it  were  in  chains  :  far  from  the 
man  who  cries  aloud  for  justice,  this  compromise  by  his  money 


14  DANTE. 


with  his  persecutors.  No,  my  father,  this  is  not  the  way  that 
shall  lead  me  back  to  my  country.  I  will  return  with  hasty 
steps,  if  you  or  any  other  can  open  to  me  a  way  that  shall  not 
derogate  from  the  fame  and  honour  of  d.  (Dante);  but  if  by  no 
such  way  Florence  can  be  entered,  then  Florence  I  shall  never 
enter.  What !  shall  I  not  every  where  enjoy  the  light  of  the 
sun  and  stars  ?  and  may  I  not  seek  and  contemplate,  in  every 
corner  of  the  earth,  under  the  canopy  of  heaven,  consoling  and 
delightful  truth,  without  first  rendering  myself  inglorious,  nay  in- 
famous, to  the  people  and  republic  of  Florence  ?  Bread,  I  hope, 
will  not  fail  me."* 

Had  Dante's  pride  and  indignation  always  vented  themselves 
in  this  truly  exalted  manner,  never  could  the  admirers  of  his  ge- 
nius have  refused  him  their  sympathy ;  and  never,  I  conceive, 
need  he  either  have  brought  his  exile  upon  him,  or  closed  it  as 
he  did.     To  that  close  we  have  now  come,  and  it  is  truly  melan- 

*  "  In  licteris  vestris  et  reverentia  debita  et  affectione  receptis,  quam  repa- 
triatio  mea  cures  it  vobis  ex  animo  grata  mente  ac  diligent!  animaversione  concepi, 
etenim  tanto  me  districtius  obligastis,  qnanto  rarius  exules  invenire  amicos  con- 
tingit.  ad  illam  vero  significata  respondeo :  et  si  non  eatenus  qiialitur  forsam 
pusillanimitas  appeteret  aliquorum,  ut  sub  examine  vestri  consilii  ante  judicium, 
afFectuose  deposco.  ecce  igitur  quod  per  licteras  vestri  mei :  que  nepotis,  necnon 
aliorum  quamplurium  amicorum  significatum  est  mihi.  per  ordinameutum  nu- 
per  factum  Florentie  super  absolutione  bannitorum.  quod  si  solvere  vellem  cer- 
tam  pecunie  quantitatem,  vellemque  pati  notam  oblationis  et  absolvi  possem 
et  redire  ut  presens.  in  quo  quidem  duo  ridenda  et  male  perconciliata  sunt. 
Pater,  dice  male  perconciliata  per  illos  qui  tali  expresserunt :  nam  vestre  liters 
discretius  et  consultius  clausulate  nicil  de  talibus  continebant.  estne  ista  revo- 
catio  gloriosa  qua  d.  all.  (i.  e.  Dantes  Alligherius)  revocatur  ad  patriam  per 
trilustrium  fere  perpessus  exilium?  hecne  meruit  conscientia  manifesta  quibus- 
libet  1  hec  sudor  et  labor  continuatus  in  studiis  ?  absit  a  viro  philosophie  domes- 
tica  temeraria  terreni  cordis  humilitcis,  ut  more  cujusdam  cioli  et  aliorum  in- 
famiam  quasi  vinctus  ipse  se  patiatur  ofFerri.  absit  a  viro  predicante  justitiam, 
ut  perpessus  iiijuriam  inferentibus.  velud  benemerentibus,  pecuniam  suam  sol- 
vat,  non  est  hec  via  redevxndi  ad  patriam,  Pater  mi,  sed  si  alia  per  vos,  aut 
deinde  per  alios  invenietur  que  fame  d.  (Dantis)  que  onori  non  deroget,  illam 
non  lentis  passibus  acceptabo.  quod  si  per  nuUam  talem  Florentia  introitur, 
nunquam  Florentiam  introibo.  quidni?  nonue  solis  astrorumque  specula  ubiquo 
conspiciam?  nonno  dulcissimas  veritates  potero  speculari  ubique  sub  celo,  ni 
prius  inglorium,  imo  ignominiosum  populo,  Florentineque  civitati  me  reddam  ? 
quippe  panis  non  deficiet." 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  15 


choly  and  mortifying.  Failure  in  a  negotiation  with  the  Vene- 
tians for  his  patron,  Guido  Novello,  is  supposed  to  have  been  the 
last  bitter  drop  which  made  the  cup  of  his  endurance  run  over. 
He  returned  from  Venice  to  Ravenna,  worn  out,  and  there  died, 
after  fifteen  years'  absence  from  his  country,  in  the  year  1231, 
aged  fifty-seven.  His  \ii^  had  been  so  agitated,  that  it  probably 
would  not  have  lasted  so  long,  but  for  the  solace  of  his  poetry, 
and  the  glory  which  he  knew  it  must  produce  him.  Guido  gave 
him  a  sumptuous  funeral,  and  intended  to  give  him  a  monument ; 
but  such  was  the  state  of  Italv  in  those  times,  that  he  himself 
died  in  exile  the  year  after.  The  monument,  however,  and  one 
of  a  noble  sort,  was  subsequently  bestowed  by  the  father  of  Cardi- 
nal Bembo,  in  1483  ;  and  another,  still  nobler,  as  late  as  1780, 
by  Cardinal  Gonzaga.  His  countrymen,  in  after  years,  made 
two  solemn  applications  for  the  removal  of  his  dust  to  Florence  ; 
but  the  just  pride  of  the  Ravennese  refused  them. 

Of  the  exile's  family,  three  sons  died  young  ;  the  daughter 
went  into  a  nunnery ;  and  the  two  remaining  brothers,  who  ulti- 
mately joined  their  father  in  his  banishment,  became  respectable 
men  of  letters,  and  left  families  in  Ravenna ;  where  the  race, 
though  extinct  in  the  male  line,  still  survives  through  a  daughter 
in  the  noble  house  of  Serego  Alighieri.  No  direct  descent  of 
the  other  kind  from  poets  of  former  times  is,  I  believe,  known  to 
exist. 

The  manners  and  general  appearance  of  Dante  have  been  mi- 
nutely recorded,  and  are  in  striking  agreement  with  his  charac- 
ter. Boccaccio  and  other  novelists  are  the  chief  relaters ;  and 
their  accounts  will  be  received  accordingly  with  the  greater  or 
less  trust,  as  the  reader  considers  them  probable  ;  but  the  author 
of  the  Decameron  personally  knew  some  of  his  friends  and  rela- 
tions, and  he  intermingles  his  least  favourable  reports  with  ex- 
pressions of  undoubted  reverence.  The  poet  was  of  middle 
height,  of  slow  and  serious  deportment,  had  a  long  dark  visage, 
large  piercing  eyes,  large  jaws,  an  aquiline  nose,  a  projecting 
under-lip,  and  thick  curling  hair — an  aspect  announcing  deter- 
mination and  melancholy.  There  is  a  sketch  of  his  counte- 
nance, in  his  younger  days,  from  the  immature  but  sweet  pencil  of 
Giotto ;  and  it  is  a  refreshment  to  look  at  it,  though  pride  and  dis- 


16  DANTE. 


content,  I  think,  are  discernible  in  its  lineaments.  It  is  idle,  and 
no  true  compliment  to  his  nature,  to  pretend,  as  his  mere  wor- 
shippers do,  that  his  face  owes  all  its  subsequent  gloom  and  exa- 
cerbation to  external  causes,  and  that  he  was  in  every  respect 
the  poor  victim  of  events — the  infant  changed  at  nurse  by  the 
wicked.  What  came  out  of  him,  he  jnust  have  had  in  him,  at 
least  in  the  germ ;  and  so  inconsistent  was  his  nature  altogether, 
or,  at  any  rate,  such  an  epitome  of  all  the  graver  passions  that 
are  capable  of  co-existing,  both  sweet  and  bitter,  thoughtful  and 
outrageous,  that  one  is  sometimes  tempted  to  think  he  must  have 
had  an  angel  for  one  parent,  and — I  shall  leave  his  own  tolera- 
tion to  say  what — for  the  other. 

To  continue  the  account  of  his  manners  and  inclinations :  He 
dressed  with  a  becoming  gravity ;  was  temperate  in  his  diet ;  a 
great  student ;  seldom  spoke,  unless  spoken  to,  but  always  to  the 
purpose ;  and  almost  all  the  anecdotes  recorded  of  him,  except 
by  himself,  are  full  of  pride  and  sarcasm.  He  was  so  swarthy, 
that  a  woman,  as  he  was  going  by  a  door  in  Verona,  is  said  to 
have  pointed  him  out  to  another,  with  a  remark  which  made  the 
saturnine  poet  smile — "  That  is  the  man  who  goes  to  hell  when- 
ever he  pleases,  and  brings  back  news  of  the  people  there."  On 
which  her  companion  observed — "  Very  likely ;  don't  you  see 
what  a  curly  beard  he  has,  and  what  a  dark  face  ?  owing,  I  dare 
say,  to  the  heat  and  smoke."  He  was  evidently  a  passionate 
lover  of  painting  and  music — is  thought  to  have  been  less  strict 
in  his  conduct  with  regard  to  the  sex  than  might  be  supposed 
from  his  platonical  aspirations — (Boccaccio  says,  that  even  a  goitre 
did  not  repel  him  from  the  pretty  face  of  a  mountaineer) — could 
be  very  social  when  he  was  young,  as  may  be  gathered  from  the 
sonnet  addressed  to  his  friend  Cavalcante  about  a  party  for  a  boat 
— and  though  his  poetry  was  so  intense  and  weighty,  the  lauda- 
ble minuteness  of  a  biographer  has  informed  us,  that  his  hand- 
writing, besides  being  neat  and  precise,  was  of  a  long  and  partic- 
ularly thin  character  :  "  meagre"  is  his  word. 

There  is  a  letter,  said  to  be  nearly  coeval  with  his  time,  and  to 
be  written  by  the  prior  of  a  monastery  to  a  celebrated  Ghibelline 
leader,  a  friend  of  Dante's,  which,  though  hitherto  accounted 
apocryphal  by  most,  has  such  an  air  of  truth,  and  contains  an 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  17 

image  of  the  poet  in  his  exile  so  exceedingly  like  what  we  con- 
ceive of  the  man,  that  it  is  difficult  not  to  believe  it  genuine, 
especially  as  the  handwriting  has  lately  been  discovered  to  be 
that  of  Boccaccio.*  At  all  events,  I  am  sure  the  reader  will  not 
be  sorry  to  have  the  substance  of  it.  The  writer  says,  that  he 
perceived  one  day  a  man  coming  into  the  monastery,  whom  none 
of  its  inmates  knew.  He  asked  him  what  he  wanted  ;  but  the 
stranger  saying  nothing,  and  continuing  to  gaze  on  the  building 
as  though  contemplating  its  architecture,  the  question  was  put  a 
second  time ;  upon  which,  looking  round  pn  his  interrogators,  he 
answered,  "  Peace  .'"  The  prior,  whose  curiosity  was  strongly 
excited,  took  the  stranger  apart,  and  discovering  who  he  was, 
shewed  him  all  the  attention  becoming  his  fame  ;  and  then  Dante 
took  a  little  book  out  of  his  bosom,  and  observing  that  perhaps 
the  prior  had  not  seen  it,  expressed  a  wish  to  leave  it  with  his 
new  friend  as  a  memorial.  It  was  "  a  portion,"  he  said,  "of 
his  work."  The  prior  received  the  volume  with  respect;  and 
politely  opening  it  at  once,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  contents,  in 
order,  it  would  seem,  to  shew  the  interest  he  took  in  it,  appeared 
suddenly  to  check  some  observation  which  they  suggested. 
Dante  found  that  his  reader  was  surprised  at  seeing  the  work 
written  in  the  vulgar  tongue  instead  of  Latin.  He  explained, 
that  he  wished  to  address  himself  to  readers  of  all  classes;  and 
concluded  with  requesting  the  prior  to  add  some  notes,  with  the 
spirit  of  which  he  furnished  him,  and  then  forward  it  (transcri- 
bed, I  presume,  by  the  monks)  to  their  common  friend,  the  Ghib- 
elline  chieftain — a  commission,  which,  knowing  the  prior's  inti- 
macy with  that  personage,  appears  to  have  been  the  main  object 
of  his  coming  to  the  place. "j" 

Tliis  letter  has  been  adduced  as  an  evidence  of  Dante's  poem 
having  transpired  during  his  lifetime  :  a  thing  which,  in  the 
teeth  of  Boccaccio's  statement  to  that  effect,  and  indeed  the  poet's 
own  testimony,:}:  Foscolo  holds  to  be  so  impossible,  that  he  turns 

*  Opere  Minori,  ut  sup.  vol.  iii.  p.  186. 

t  Veltro  Allegorico  di  Dante,  ut  sup.  p.  208,  where  the  Appendix  contains 
tlie  Latin  original. 

X  See  Fraticeili's  Dissertation  on  the  Convito,  in  Opere  Minori,  ut  sup.  vol. 
ii,  p.  560. 

3 


18  DANTE. 


the  evidence  against  the  letter.  He  thinks,  that  if  such  bitter  in- 
vectives had  been  circulated,  a  hundred  daggers  would  have  been 
sheathed  in  the  bosom  of  the  exasperating  poet.*  But  I  cannot 
help  being  of  opinion,  with  some  writer  whom  T  am  unable  at 
present  to  call  to  mind  (Schlegel,  I  think),  that  the  strong  critical 
reaction  of  modern  times  in  favour  of  Dante's  genius  has  tended 
to  exaggerate  the  idea  conceived  of  him  in  relation  to  his  own. 
That  he  was  of  importance,  and  bitterly  hated  in  his  native  city, 
was  a  distinction  he  shared  with  other  partisans  who  have  ob- 
tained no  celebrity,  though  his  poetry,  no  doubt,  must  have  in- 
creased the  bitterness  ;  that  his  genius  also  became  more  and 
more  felt  out  of  the  city,  by  the  few  individuals  capable  of  esti- 
mating a  man  of  letters  in  those  semi-barbarous  times,  may  be 
regarded  as  certain ;  but  that  busy  politicians  in  general,  war- 
making  statesmen,  and  princes  constantly  occupied  in  fighting  for 
their  existence  with  one  another,  were  at  all  alive  either  to  his 
merits  or  his  invectives,  or  would  have  regarded  him  as  any  thing 
but  a  poor  wandering  scholar,  solacing  his  foolish  interference  in 
the  politics  of  this  world  with  the  old  clerical  threats  against  his 
enemies  in  another,  will  hardly,  I  think,  be  doubted  by  any  one  who 
reflects  on  the  difference  between  a  fame  accumulated  by  ages, 
and  the  living  poverty  that  is  obliged  to  seek  its  bread.  A  writer 
on  a  monkish  subject  may  have  acquired  fame  with  monks,  and 
even  with  a  few  distinguished  persons,  and  yet  have  been  little 
known,  and  less  cared  for,  out  of  the  pale  of  that  very  private 
literary  public,  which  was  almost  exclusively  their  own.  When 
we  read,  now-a-days,  of  the  great  poet's  being  so  politely  received 
by  Can  Grande,  lord  of  Verona,  and  sitting  at  his  princely  table, 
we  are  apt  to  fancy  that  nothing  but  his  great  poetry  procured 
him  the  reception,  and  that  nobody  present  competed  with  him  in 
the  eyes  of  his  host.  But,  to  say  nothing  of  the  different  kinds 
of  retainers,  that  could  sit  at  a  prince's  table  in  those  days.  Can, 
who  was  more  ostentatious  than  delicate  in  his  munificence,  kept 
a  sort  of  caravansera  for  clever  exiles,  whom  he  distributed  into 
lodgings  classified  according  to  their  pursuits  ;f  and  Dante  only 
shared  his  bounty  with  the  rest,  till  the  more  delicate  poet  could 

*  Discorso  sul  Testo,  p.  54.  t  Balbo,  Naples  edition,  p.  132. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  19 

no  longer  endure  either  the  butlboncry  of  his  companions,  or  tiie 
amusement  derived  from  it  by  the  master.  On  one  occasion,  his 
platter  is  slily  heaped  with  their  bones,  which  provokes  him  to 
call  them  dogs,  as  having  none  to  shew  for  their  own.  Another 
time,  Can  Grande  asks  him  how  it  is  that  his  companions  give 
more  pleasure  at  court  than  himself;  to  which  he  answers,  "  Be- 
cause like  loves  like."  He  then  leaves  the  court,  and  his  dis- 
gusted superiority  is  no  doubt  regarded  as  a  pedantic  assumption. 
He  stopped  long  nowhere,  except  with  Guido  Novello  ;  and 
when  that  prince,  whose  downfall  was  at  hand,  sent  him  on  the 
journey  above  mentioned  to  Venice,  the  senate  (whom  the  poet 
had  never  offended)  were  so  little  aware  of  his  being  of  conse- 
quence, that  they  declined  giving  him  an  audience.  He  went 
back,  and  broke  his  heart.  Boccaccio  says,  that  he  would  get 
into  such  passions  with  the  very  boys  and  girls  in  the  street,  who 
plagued  him  with  party- words,  as  to  throw  stones  at  them — a 
thing  that  would  be  incredible,  if  persons  acquainted  with  his 
great  but  ultra-sensitive  nation  did  not  know  what  Italians  could 
do  in  all  ages,  from  Dante's  own  age  down  to  the  times  of  Alfieri 
and  Foscolo.  It  would  be  as  difficult,  from  the  evidence  of  his 
own  works  and  of  the  exasperation  he  created,  to  doubt  the  ex- 
tremest  reports  of  his  irascible  temper,  as  it  would  be  not  to  give 
implicit  faith  to  his  honesty.  The  charge  of  peculation  which  his 
enemies  brought  against  this  great  poet,  the  world  has  universally 
scouted  with  an  indifijnation  that  does  it  honour.  He  himself 
seems  never  to  have  condescended  to  allude  to  it  ;  and  a  biogra- 
pher would  feel  bound  to  copy  his  silence,  had  not  the  accusation 
been  so  atrociously  recorded.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  who  can 
believe  that  a  man  so  capable  of  doing  his  fellow-citizens  good 
and  honour,  would  have  experienced  such  excessive  enmity,  had 
he  not  carried  to  excess  the  provocations  of  his  pride  and  scorn  ? 
His  whole  history  goes  to  prove  it,  not  omitting  the  confession  he 
makes  of  pride  as  his  chief  sin,  and  the  eulogies  he  bestows  on 
the  favourite  vice  of  the  age — revenge.  His  Christianity  (at  least 
as  shewn  in  his  poem)  was  not  that  of  Christ,  but  of  a  furious 
polemic.  His  motives  for  changing  his  party,  though  probably 
of  a  mixed  nature,  like  those  of  most  human  beings,  may  reason- 
ably be  supposed  to  have  originated  in  something  better  than  in- 


20  DANTE. 


terest  or  indignation.  He  had  most  likely  not  agreed  thoroughly 
with  any  party,  and  had  become  hopeless  of  seeing  dispute^ 
brought  to  an  end,  except  by  the  representative  of  the  Coesars. 
The  inconsistency  of  the  personal  characters  of  the  Popes  with 
the  sacred  claims  of  the  chair  of  St.  Peter,  was  also  calculated 
greatly  to  disgust  him ;  but  still  his  own  infirmities  of  pride  and 
vindictiveness  spoiled  all ;  and  when  he  loaded  every  body  else 
with  reproach  for  the  misfortunes  of  his  country,  he  should  have 
recollected  that,  had  his  own  faults  been  kept  in  subjection  to  his 
understanding,  he  might  possibly  have  been  its  saviour.  Dante's 
modesty  has  been  asserted  on  the  ground  of  his  humbling  him- 
self to  the  fame  of  Virgil,  and  at  the  feet  of  blessed  spirits  ;  but 
this  kind  of  exalted  humility  does  not  repay  a  man's  fellow-citi- 
zens for  lording  it  over  them  with  scorn  and  derision.  We  learn 
from  Boccaccio,  that  when  he  was  asked  to  go  ambassador  from 
his  party  to  the  pope,  he  put  to  them  the  following  useless  and 
mortifying  queries — "  If  I  go,  who  is  to  stay  ? — and  if  I  stay, 
who  is  to  go  ?"*  Neither  did  his  pride  make  him  tolerant  of 
pride  in  others.     A  neighbour  applying  for  his  intercession  witli 


*  "  Di  se  stesso  presunse  maravigliosamente  tanto,  che  essendo  egli  glorioso 
nel  colmo  del  reggimento  della  republica,  e  ragionandosi  tr&.  maggiori  cittadini 
di  mandare,  per  alcuna  gran  bisogna,  ambasciata  a  Bonifazio  Papa  VIII.,  e 
che  principe  della  ambasciata  fosse  Daute,  ed  egli  in  cio  in  presenzia  di  tutti 
quegli  che  cio  consigliavano  ricliiesto,  avvenne,  che  soprastando  egli  alia  ris- 
posta,  alcun  disse,  che  pensi  ?  alle  quali  parole  egli  rispose :  penso,  se  io  vo,  chi 
riniane  ;  e  s'  io  rimango,  chi  va  :  quasi  esso  solo  fosse  colui  che  fra  tutti  valesse 
e  per  cui  tutti  gli  altri  valessero."  And  he  goes  on  to  say,  respecting  the  stone- 
throwing — "  Appresso,  come  che  il  nostro  poeta  nelle  sua  avversit^.  paziente 
o  no  si  fosse,  in  una  fu  impazientissimo  :  ed  egli  infino  al  cominciamento  del 
suo  esilio  stato  guelfissimo,  non  essendogii  aperta  la  via  del  ritornare  in  casa 
sua,  si  fiior  di  modo  diventf)  ghibellino,  che  ogni  femminella,  ogni  picciol  fan- 
ciullo,  e  quante  volte  avesse  voluto,  ragionando  di  parte,  e  la  guelfa  proponendo 
alia  ghibellina,  I'avrebbe  non  solamente  fatto  turbare,  ma  a  tanta  insania  com- 
mosso,  che  se  taciuto  non  fosse,  a  gittar  le  pietre  I'avrebbe  condotto."  (Vita  di 
Dante,  prefixed  to  the  Paris  edition  of  the  Commedia,  1844,  p.  xxv.)  And 
then  the  "  biion  Boccaccio,"  with  his  accustomed  sweetness  of  nature,  begs 
pardon  of  so  great  a  man,  for  being  obliged  to  relate  such  things  of  him,  and 
doubts  whether  his  spirit  may  not  be  looking  down  on  him  that  moment  dis- 
dainfully from  heaven  !  Such  an  association  of  ideas  had  Dante  produced 
between  the  celestial  and  the  scornful  I 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  521 

a  magistrate,  wlio  had  summoned  him  for  some  offence,  Dante, 
who  disliked  the  man  for  riding  in  an  overbearing  manner  along 
the  streets  (stretching  out  his  legs  as  wide  as  he  could,  and  hin- 
dering people  from  going  by),  did  intercede  with  the  magistrate, 
but  it  was  in  behalf  of  doubling  the  fine  in  consideration  of  the 
horsemanship.  The  neighbour,  who  was  a  man  of  family,  was 
so  exasperated,  that  Sacchetti  the  novelist  says  it  was  the  princi- 
pal cause  of  Dante's  expatriation.  This  will  be  considered  the 
less  improbable,  if,  as  some  suppose,  the  delinquent  obtained  pos- 
session of  his  derider's  confiscated  property  ;  but,  at  all  events, 
nothing  is  more  likely  to  have  injured  him.  The  bitterest  ani- 
mosities are  generally  of  a  personal  nature ;  and  bitter  indeed 
must  have  been  those  which  condemned  a  man  of  official  dignity 
and  of  genius  to  such  a  penalty  as  the  stake.* 

That  the  Florentines  of  old,  like  other  half-Christianised  peo- 
ple, were  capable  of  any  extremity  against  an  opponent,  burning 
included,  was  proved  by  the  fates  of  Savonarola  and  others ;  and 
that  Dante  himself  could  admire  the  burners  is  evident  from  his 
euloijies  and  beatification  of  such  men  as  Folco  and  St.  Dominic. 
The  tragical  as  well  as  "  fantastic  tricks"  which 

"  Man,  proud  man, 
Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority," 

plays  with  his  energy  and  bad  passions  under  the  guise  of  duty, 
is  among  the  most  perplexing  of  those  spectacles,  which,  accord- 
ing to  a  greater  understanding  than  Dante's,  "  make  the  an- 
gels weep."  (Dante,  by  the  way,  has  introduced  in  his  heaven 
no  such  angels  as  those  ;  though  he  has  plenty  that  scorn  and  de- 
nounce.) Lope  de  Vega,  though  a  poet,  was  an  officer  of  the  In- 
quisition, and  joined  the  famous  Armada  that  was  coming  to 
thumbscrew  and  roast  us  into  his  views  of  Christian  meekness. 
Whether  the  author  of  the  story  of  Paulo  and  Francesca  could 
have  carried  the  Dominican  theories  into  practice,  had  he  been 
the  banisher  instead  of  the  banished,  is  a  point  that  may  happily 
be  doubled  ;  but  at  all  events  he  revejiged  himself  on  his  enemies 

*  Novelle  di  Franco  Sacchetti,  Milan  edition,  1804,  vol.  ii.  p.  148.  It  forms 
the  setting,  or  frame-work,  of  an  inferior  story,  and  is  not  mentioned  in  the 
heading. 


22  DANTE. 


after  their  own  fashion ;   for  he  answered  their  decree  of  the 
stake  by 'putting  them  into  hell. 

Dante  entitled  the  saddest  poem  in  the  world  a  Comedy,  be- 
cause it  was  written  in  a  middle  style  ;  though  some,  by  a  strange 
confusion  of  ideas,  think  the  reason  must  have  been  because  it 
"  ended  happily  !"  that  is,  because,  beginning  with  hell  (to  some), 
it  terminated  with  "  heaven"  (to  others).  As  well  might  they 
have  said,  that  a  morning's  work  in  the  Inquisition  ended  happily, 
because,  while  people  were  being  racked  in  the  dungeons,  the  of- 
ficers were  making  merry  in  the  drawing-room.  For  the  much- 
injured  epithet  of  "  Divine,"  Dante's  memory  is  not  responsible. 
He  entitled  his  poem  arrogantly  enough,  yet  still  not  with  that 
impiety  of  arrogance,  "  The  Comedy  of  Dante  Alighieri,  a  Flor- 
entine by  nation  but  not  by  habits."  The  word  "  divine"  was 
added  by  some  transcriber  ;  and  it  heaped  absurdity  on  absur- 
dity, too  much  of  it,  alas  !  being  literally  infernal  tragedy.  I 
am  not  speaking  in  mockery,  any  further  than  the  fact  itself  can- 
not help  so  speaking.  I  respect  what  is  to  be  respected  in  Dante ; 
I  admire  in  him  v/hat  is  admirable  ;  would  love  (if  his  infernali- 
ties  would  let  me)  what  is  loveable  ;  but  this  must  not  hinder 
one  of  the  human  race  from  protesting  against  what  is  erroneous 
in  his  fame,  when  it  jars  against  every  best  feeling,  human  and 
divine.  Mr.  Cary  thinks  that  Dante  had  as  much  right  to  avail 
himself  of  "  the  popular  creed  in  all  its  extravagance"  as  Homer 
had  of  his  gods,  or  Shakspeare  of  his  fairies.  But  the  distinc- 
tion is  obvious.  Homer  did  not  personally  identify  himself  with 
a  creed,  or  do  his  utmost  to  perpetuate  the  worst  parts  of  it  in 
behalf  of  a  ferocious  inquisitorial  church,  and  to  the  risk  of  en- 
dangering the  peace  of  millions  of  gentle  minds. 

The  great  poem  thus  misnomered  is  partly  a  system  of  theol- 
ogy,' partly  an  abstract  of  the  knowledge  of  the  day,  but  chiefly 
a  series  of  passionate  and  imaginative  pictures,  altogether  form- 
ing an  account  of  the  author's  times,  his  friends,  his  enemies, 
and  himself,  written  to  vent  the  spleen  of  his  exile,  and  the  rest 
of  his  feelings,  good  and  bad,  and  to  reform  church  and  state  by 
a  spirit  of  resentment  and  obloquy,  which  highly  needed  reform 
itself.  It  has  also  a  design  strictly  self- referential.  The  author 
feigns,  that  the  beatified  spirit  of  his  mistress  has  obtained  leave 


V 


HIS    LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  23 

to  warn  and  purify  his  soul  by  shewing  him  the  state  of  things  in 
the  next  world.  She  deputes  the  soul  of  his  master  Virgil  to 
conduct  iiiin  througii  hell  and  purgatory,  and  then  takes  him  her- 
self through  the  spheres  of  heaven,  where  St.  Peter  catechises 
and  confirms  him,  and  where  he  is  fmally  honoured  with  sights 
of  the  Virgin  Mary,  of  Christ,  and  even  a  glimpse  of  the  Su- 
preme Being  ! 

His  hell,  considered  as  a  place,  is,  to  speak  geologically,  a 
most  fantastical  formation.  It  descends  from  beneath  Jerusalem 
to  the  centre  of  the  earth,  and  is  a  funnel  graduated  in  circles,  each 
circle  being  a  separate  place  of  torment  for  a  different  vice  or  its 
co-ordinates,  and  the  point  of  the  funnel  terminating  with  Satan 
stuck  into  ice.  Purgatory  is  a  corresponding  mountain  on  the 
other  side  of  the  globe,  commencing  with  the  antipodes  of  Jeru- 
salem, and  divided  into  exterior  circles  of  expiation,  which  end 
m  a  table-land  forming  the  terrestrial  paradise.  From  this  the 
hero  and  his  mistress  ascend  by  a  flight,  exquisitely  conceived,  to 
the  stars  ;  where  the  sun  and  the  planets  of  the  Ptolemaic  sys- 
tem (for  the  true  one  was  unknown  in  Dante's  time)  form  a  se- 
ries of  heavens  for  different  virtues,  the  whole  terminating  in  the 
empyrean,  or  region  of  pure  light,  and  the  presence  of  the  Be- 
atific Vision. 

The  boundaries  of  old  and  new,  strange  as  it  may  now 
seem  to  us,  were  so  confused  in  those  days,  and  books  were  so 
rare,  and  the  Latin  poets  held  in  such  invincible  reverence,  that 
Dante,  in  one  and  the  same  poem,  speaks  of  the  false  gods  of  Pa- 
ganism, and  yet  retains  much  of  its  lower  mythology ;  nay,  in- 
vokes Apollo  himself  at  the  door  of  paradise.  There  was,  per- 
haps, some  mystical  and  even  philosophical  inclusion  of  the  past 
in  this  medley,  as  recognising  the  constant  superintendence  of 
Providence  ;  but  that  Dante  partook  of  what  may  be  called  the 
literary  superstition  of  the  time,  even  for  want  of  better  know- 
ledge, is  clear  from  the  grave  historical  use  he  makes  of  poetic 
fables  in  his  treatise  on  Monarchy,  and  in  the  very  arguments 
which  he  puts  into  the  mouths  of  saints  and  apostles.  There  are 
lingering  feelings  to  this  effect  even  now  among  the  peasantry  of 
Italy  ;  where,  the  reader  need  not  be  told.  Pagan  customs  of  all 
sorts,  including  religious  and  most  reverend  ones,  are  existing 


24  DANTE. 


under  the  sanction  of  other  names  ; — heathenisms  christened.  A 
Tuscan  postilion,  once  enumerating  to  me  some  of  the  native 
poets,  concluded  his  list  with  Apollo;  and  a  plaster-cast  man 
over  here,  in  London,  appeared  much  puzzled,  when  conversing 
on  the  subject  with  a  friend  of  mine,  how  to  discrepate  Samson 
from  Hercules. 

Dante  accordingly,  while,  with  the  frightful  bigotry  of  the 
schools,  he  puts  the  whole  Pagan  world  into  hell-borders  (with 
the  exception  of  two  or  three,  whose  salvation  adds  to  the  absur- 
dity), mingles  the  hell  of  Virgil  with  that  of  Tertullian  and  St. 
Dominic  ;  sets  Minos  at  the  door  as  judge  ;  retains  Charon  in  his 
old  office  of  boatman  over  the  Stygian  lake  ;  puts  fabulous  peo- 
ple with  real  among  the  damned,  Dido,  and  Cacus,  and  Ephialtes, 
with  Ezzelino  and  Pope  Nicholas  the  Fifth  ;  and  associates  the 
Centaurs  and  the  Furies  with  the  agents  of  diabolical  torture. 
It  has  pleased  him  also  to  elevate  Cato  of  Utica  to  the  office  of 
warder  of  purgatory,  though  the  censor's  poor  good  wife,  Marcia, 
is  detained  in  the  regions  below.  By  these  and  other  far  greater 
inconsistencies,  the  whole  place  of  punishment  becomes  a  reduc- 
iio  ah  absurdum,  as  ridiculous  as  it  is  melancholy  ;  so  that  one 
is  astonished  how  so  great  a  man,  and  especially  a  man  who 
thought  himself  so  far  advanced  beyond  his  age,  and  who  pos- 
sessed such  powers  of  discerning  the  good  and  beautiful,  could 
endure  to  let  his  mind  live  in  so  foul  and  foolish  a  region  for  any 
length  of  time,  and  there  wreak  and  harden  the  unworthiest  of 
his  passions.  Genius,  nevertheless,  is  so  commensurate  with  absur- 
dity throughout  the  book,  and  there  are  even  such  sweet  and  balmy 
as  well  as  sublime  pictures  in  it  occasionally,  nay  often,  that  not 
only  will  the  poem  ever  be  worthy  of  admiration,  but  when  those 
increasing  purifications  of  Christianity  which  our  blessed  refor- 
mers began,  shall  finally  precipitate  the  whole  dregs  of  the  au- 
thor into  the  mythology  to  which  they  belong,  the  world  will  de- 
rive a  pleasure  from  it  to  an  amount  not  to  be  conceived  till  the 
arrival  of  that  day.  Dante,  meantime,  with  an  impartiality 
which  has  been  admired  by  those  who  can  approve  the  assumption 
of  a  theological  tyranny  at  the  expense  of  common  feeling  and  de- 
cency, has  put  friends  as  well  as  foes  into  hell :  tutors  of  his  child- 
hood, kinsmen  of  those  who  treated  him  hospitably,  even  the  father 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  95 

of  his  beloved  friend,  Guido  Cavalcantc — the  last  for  not  believ- 
ing in  a  God  :  therein  doing  the  worst  thing  possible  in  behalf  of 
the  belief,  and  totally  ditlering  both  with  the  pious  heathen  Plu- 
tarch, and  the  great  Christian  philosopher  Bacon,  who  were  of 
opinion  that  a  contumelious  belief  is  worse  than  none,  and  that 
it  is  far  better  and  more  pious  to  believe  in  "  no  God  at  all,"  than 
in  a  God  who  would  "  cat  his  children  as  soon  as  they  were 
born."  And  Dante  makes  him  do  worse  ;  for  the  whole  unbap- 
tised  infant  world.  Christian  as  well  as  Pagan,  is  in  his  Tartarus. 

Milton  has  spoken  of  the  "  milder  shades  of  Purgatory  ;"  and 
truly  they  possess  great  beauties.  Even  in  a  theological  point 
of  view  they  are  something  like  a  bit  of  Christian  refreshment 
after  the  horrors  of  the  Inferno,  The  first  emerging  from  the 
hideous  gulf  to  the  sight  of  the  blue  serenity  of  heaven,  is  paint- 
ed in  a  manner  inexpressibly  charming.  So  is  the  sea-shore 
with  the  coming  of  the  angel  ;  the  valley,  with  the  angels  in 
green  ;  the  repose  at  night  on  the  rocks ;  and  twenty  other  pic- 
tures of  gentleness  and  love.  And  yet,  special  and  great  has 
been  the  escape  of  the  Protestant  world  from  this  part  of  Roman 
Catholic  belief;  for  Purgatory  ij  the  heaviest  stone  that  hangs 
about  the  neck  of  the  old  and  feeble  in  that  communion.  Hell 
is  avoidable  by  repentance  ;  but  Purgatory,  what  modest  con- 
science shall  escape  '?  Mr.  Cary,  in  a  note  on  a  passage  in  which 
Dante  recommends  his  readers  to  think  on  what  follows  this  ex- 
piatory state,  rather  than  what  is  suffered  there,*  looks  upon  the 
poet's  injunction  as  an  "  unanswerable  objection  to  the  doctrine 
of  purgatoiy,"  it  being  difficult  to  conceive  "  how  the  best  can 
meet  death  without  horror,  if  they  believe  it  must  be  followed  by 
immediate  and  intense  suffering."  Luckily,  assent  is  not  belief; 
and  mankind's  feelings  are  for  the  most  part  superior  to  their 
opinions ;  otherwise  the  world  would  have  been  in  a  bad  way  in- 
deed, and  nature  not  been  vindicated  of  her  children.  But  let 
us  watch  and  be  on  our  guard  against  all  resuscitations  of  su- 
perstition. 

As  to  our  Florentine's  Heaven,  it  is  full  of  beauties    also, 


*  The  Vision;  or.  Hell,  Purgatory, and  Paradise,  of  Dante  Alighieri,  ^c 
Smith's  edition,  1844,  p.  90. 


26  DANTE. 


though  sometimes  of  a  more  questionable  and  pantomimical  sort 
than  is  to  be  found  in  either  of  the  other  books.  I  shall  speak  of 
some  of  them  presently  ;  but  the  general  impression  of  the  place 
is,  that  it  is  no  heaven  at  all.  He  says  it  is,  and  talks  much  of 
its  smiles  and  its  beatitude  ;  but  always  excepting  the  poetry — 
especially  the  similes  brought  from  the  more  heavenly  earth — we 
realise  little  but  a  fantastical  assemblage  of  doctors  and  doubtful 
cliaractcrs,  far  more  angry  and  theological  than  celestial  ;  giddy 
raptures  of  monks  and  inquisitors  dancing  in  circles,  and  saints 
denouncing  popes  and  Florentines  ;  in  short,  a  heaven  libelling 
itself  with  invectives  against  earth,  and  terminating  in  a  great 
presumption.  Many  of  the  people  put  there,  a  Calvinistic  Dante 
would  have  consigned  to' the  "other  place;"  and  some,  if  now 
living,  would  not  be  admitted  into  decent  society.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  one  of  the  cantos,  the  poet  congratulates  himself,  with  a 
complacent  superiority,  on  his  being  in  heaven  and  occupied  with 
celestial  matters,  while  his  poor  fellow-creatures  are  wandering 
and  blundering  on  earth.  But  he  had  never  got  there  !  A  di- 
vine— worthy  of  that  name — of  the  Church  of  England  (Dr. 
Whichcote),  has  beautifully  said,  that  "  heaven  is  first  a  temper, 
and  then  a  place."  According  to  this  truly  celestial  topography, 
the  implacable  Florentine  had  not  reached  its  outermost  court. 
Again,  his  heavenly  mistress,  Beatrice,  besides  being  far  too  di- 
dactic  to  sustain  the  womanly  part  of  her  character  properly,  al- 
ternates her  smiles  and  her  sarcasms  in  a  way  that  jars  horribly 
against  the  occasional  enchantment  of  her  aspect.  She  does  not 
scruple  to  burst  into  taunts  of  the  Florentines  in  the  presence  of 
Jesus  himself ;  and  the  spirit  of  his  ancestor,  Cacciaguida,  in  the 
very  bosom  of  Christian  bliss,  promises  him  revenge  on  his  ene- 
mies !  Is  this  the  kind  of  zeal  that  is  to  be  exempt  from  objec- 
tion in  a  man  who  objected  to  all  the  world  ?  or  will  it  be  thought 
a  profaneness  against  such  profanity,  to  remind  the  reader  of  the 
philosopher  in  Swift,  who  "  while  gazing  on  the  stars,  was  betray- 
ed by  his  lower  parts  into  a  ditch  !" 

The  reader's  time  need  not  be  wasted  with  the  allegorical  and 
other  mystical  significations  given  to  the  poem  ;  still  less  on  the 
question  whether  Beatrice  is  theology,  or  a  young  lady,  or  both  ;  i 
and  least  of  all  on  the  discovery  of  the  ingenious  Signor  Rossetti, 


m 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  27 

hat  Dante  and  all  the  other  great  old  Italian  writers  meant  no- 
.hing,  either  by  their  mistresses  or  their  mythology,  but  attacks 
m  the  court  of  Rome.  Suffice  it,  that  besides  all  other  possible 
neanings,  Dante  himself  has  told  us  that  his  poem  has  its  obvi- 
ous and  literal  meaning ;  that  he  means  a  spade  by  a  spade,  pur- 
gatory by  purgatory,  and  truly  and  unaffectedly  to  devote  his 
iriends  to  the  infernal  regions  whenever  he  does  so.  I  confess  I ' 
:hink  it  is  a  great  pity  that  Guido  Cavalcante  did  not  live  to  read 
he  poem,  especially  the  passage  about  his  father.  The  under- 
itanding  of  Guido,  who  had  not  the  admiration  for  Virgil  that 
Dante  had  (very  likely  for  reasons  that  have  been  thought  sound 
n  modern  times),  was  in  all  probability  as  good  as  that  of  his 
Hend  in  many  respects,  and  perhaps  more  so  in  one  or  two ;  and 
nodern  criticism  might  have  been  saved  some  of  its  pains  of 
)bjection  by  the  poet's  contemporary. 

The  author  did  not  live  to  publish,  in  any  formal  manner,  his 
Extraordinary  poem,  probably  did  not  intend  to  do  so,  except  un- 
ier  those  circumstances  of  political  triumph  which  he  was  al- 
vays  looking  for ;  but  as  he  shewed  portions  of  it  to  his  friends, 
t  was  no  doubt  talked  of  to  a  certain  extent,  and  must  have  ex- 
isperated  such  of  his  enemies  as  considered  him  worth  their  hos- 
ility.     No  wonder  they  did  all  they  could  to  keep  him  out  of 
Florence.     What  would  they  have  said  of  him,  could  they  have 
vritten  a  counter  poem  ?     What  would  even  his  friends  have 
jaid  of  him  ?  for  we  see  in  what  manner  he  has  treated  even 
:hose  ;   and  yet  how  could  he  possibly  know,  with  respect  either 
.0  friends  or  enemies,  what  passed  between  them  and  their  con- 
jciences  ?  or  who  was  it  that  gave  him  his  right  to  generate  the 
X)asted  distinction  between  an  author's  feelings  as  a  man  and  his 
issumed  office  as  a  theologian,  and  parade  the  latter  at  the  for- 
mer's expense  ?     His  own  spleen,  hatred,  and  avowed  sentiments 
)f  vengeance,  are  manifest  throughout  the   poem  ;   and  there  is 
his,  indeed,  to  be  said  for  the  moral  and  religious  inconsistencies 
x)th  of  the  man  and  his  verse,  that  in  those  violent  times  the 
jpirit  of  Christian  charity,  and  even  the  sentiment  of  personal 
ihame,  were  so  little  understood,  that  the  author  in  one  part  of  it 
s  made  to  bliWi  by  a  friend  for  not  having  avenged  him  ;  and  it 
s  said  to  have  been  thought  a  compliment  to  put  a  lady  herself 


28  DANTE. 


into  hell,  that  she  might  be  talked  of,  provided  it  was  for  som 
thing  not  odious.  An  admirer  of  this  infernal  kind  of  celebrit 
even  in  later  times,  declared  that  he  would  have  given  a  sum  ( 
money  (I  forget  to  what  amount)  if  Dante  had  but  done  as  mu< 
for  one  of  his  ancestors.  It  has  been  argued,  that  in  all  the  pa 
ties  concerned  in  these  curious  ethics  there  is  a  generous  love  < 
distinction,  and  a  strong  craving  after  life,  action,  and  sympatl 
of  some  kind  or  other.  Granted  ;  there  are  all  sorts  of  half-goo 
half-barbarous  feelings  in  Dante's  poem.  Let  justice  be  done 
the  good  half;  but  do  not  let  us  take  the  ferocity  for  wisdom  ai 
piety ;  or  pretend,  in  the  complacency  of  our  own  freedom  fro 
superstition,  to  see  no  danger  of  harm  to  the  less  fortunate  amoi 
our  fellow-creatures  in  the  support  it  receives  from  a  man  of  g 
nius.  Bedlams  have  been  filled  with  such  horrors  ;  thousanc 
nay  millions  of  feeble  minds  are  suffering  by  them  or  from  thei 
at  this  minute,  all  over  the  world.  Dante's  best  critic,  Fosco] 
has  said  much  of  the  heroical  nature  of  the  age  in  which  tl 
poet  lived ;  but  he  adds,  that  its  mixture  of  knowledge  and  a 
surdity  is  almost  inexplicable.  The  truth  is,  that  like  every thii 
else  which  appears  harsh  and  unaccountable  in  nature,  it  was  i 
excess  of  the  materials  for  good,  working  in  an  over-active  ai 
inexperienced  manner ;  but  knowing  this,  we  are  bound,  for  tl 
sake  of  the  good,  not  to  retard  its  improvement  by  ignoring  exis 
ing  impieties,  or  blind  ourselves  to  the  perpetuating  tendencies  ( 
the  bigotries  of  great  men.  Oh  !  had  the  first  indoctrinators  c 
Christian  feeling,  while  enlisting  the  "  divine  Plato"  into  the  se 
vice  of  diviner  charity,  only  kept  the  latter  just  enough  in  mil 
to  discern  the  beautiful  difference  between  the  philosopher's  u: 
malignant  and  improvable  evil,  and  their  own  malignant  ar 
eternal  one,  what  a  world  of  folly  and  misery  they  might  ha) 
saved  us  !  But  as  the  evil  has  happened,  let  us  hope  that  ev€ 
this  form  of  it  has  had  its  uses.  If  Dante  thought  it  salutary 
the  world  to  maintain  a  system  of  religious  terror,  the  same  cha 
ity  which  can  hope  that  it  may  once  have  been  so,  has  taught  i 
how  to  commence  a  better.  But  did  he,  after  all,  or  did  he  nc 
think  it  salutary  ?  Did  he  think  so,  believing  the  creed  himself 
or  did  he  think  it  from  an  unwilling  sense  of  its  necessity  ?  O 
lastly,  did  he  write  only  as  a  mythologist,  and  care  for  nothir 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  29 

but  the  exercise  of  his  spleen  and  genius  ?  If  he  had  no  other 
object  than  that,  his  conscientiousness  would  be  reduced  to  a  low 
pitch  indeed.  Foscolo  is  of  opinion  he  was  not  only  in  earnest, 
but  that  he  was  very  near  taking  himself  for  an  apostle,  and 
^vould  have  done  so  had  his  prophecies  succeeded,  perhaps  with 
success  to  the  pretension.*  Thank  heaven,  his  "  Hell"  has  not 
?mbittered  the   mild   reading-desks  of  the  Church   of  England. 

^  [f  King  George  the  Third  himself,  with  all  his  arbitrary  notions, 
ind  willing  religious  acquiescence,  could  not  endure  the  creed  of 
5t.  Athanasius  with  its  damnatory  enjoinments  of  the  impossible, 
-vhat  would   have  been  said  to  the  inscription  over  Dante's  hell- 

'  ^ate,  or  the  account  of  TJgolino  eating  an  archbishop,  in  the  gen- 
ie chapels  of  Queen  Victoria  ?  May  those  chapels  have  every 
ieauty  in  them,  and  every  air  of  heaven,  that  painting  and  music 
;an  bestow — divine  gifts,  not  unworthy  to  be  set  before  their  Di- 
vine Bestower  ;  but  far  from  them  be  kept  the  foul  fiends  of  in- 
mmanity  and  superstition  ! 
It  is  certainly  impossible  to  get  at  a  thorough  knowledge  of 

^iie  opinions  of  Dante  even  in  theology;  and  his  morals,  if 
udged  according  to  the  received  standard,  are  not  seldom  puz- 
ling.  He  rarely  thinks  as  the  popes  do ;  sometimes  not  as  the 
Church  does  ;  he  is  lax,  for  instance,  on  the  subject  of  absolution 
)y  the  priest  at  death. f  All  you  can  be  sure  of  is,  the  predomi- 
iance  of  his  will,  the  most  wonderful  poetry,  and  the  notions  he 
sntertained  of  the  degrees  of  vice  and  virtue.  Towards  the 
rrors  of  love  he  is  inclined  to  be  so  lenient  (some  think  because 
le  had  indulged  in  them  himself),  that  it  is  pretty  clear  he  would 
lOt  have  put  Paulo  and  Francesca  into  hell,  if  their  story  had 
lOt  been  too  recent,  and  their  death  too  sudden,  to  allow  him  to 
.ssume  their  repentance  in  the  teeth  of  the  evidence  required. 
e  avails  himself  of  orthodox  license  to  put  "  the  harlot  Rahab" 
ato  heaven  ("  cette  bonne  fille  de  Jericho,"  as  Ginguene  calls 
er)  ;  nay,  he  puts  her  into  the  planet  Venus,  as  if  to  compli- 
lent  her  on  her  profession  ;  and  one  of  her  companions  there  is 


11 


ai 
ani 
ill  i^ 

10 


iiiii 
ao 

to' 
evi 

ry 
elia 

lit  11 


jflCl 

'^'*'J  »  Discorso  sul  Tcsto,  pp.  64,  77-90,  335-338. 

_T  t  Purgatorio,  canto  iii.  118,  138;  referred  to  by  Foscolo,  in  the  Discorso 
mul  Testo,  p.  383. 


30  DANTE. 


a  fair  Ghibelline,  sister  of  the  tyrant  Ezzelino,  a  lady  famous  for 
her  gallantries,  of  whom  the  poet  good-naturedly  says,  that  she 
"  was  overcome  by  her  star" — to  wit,  the  said  planet  Venus  ; 
and  yet  he  makes  her  the  organ  of  the  most  unfeminine  triumphs 
over  the  Guelphs.  But  both  these  ladies,  it  is  to  be  understood, 
repented — for  they  had  time  for  repentance ;  their  good  fortune 
saved  them.  Poor  murdered  Francesca  had  no  time  to  repent ; 
therefore  her  mischance  was  her  damnation !  Such  are  the  com- 
pliments theology  pays  to  the  Creator.  In  fact,  nothing  is  really 
punished  in  Dante's  Catholic  hell  but  impenitence,  deliberate  or 
accidental.  No  delay 'of  repentance,  however  dangerous,  hin- 
ders the  most  hard-hearted  villain  from  reaching  his  heaven.  The 
best  man  goes  to  hell  for  ever,  if  he  does  not  think  he  has  sinned 
as  Dante  thinks  ;  the  worst  is  beatified,  if  he  agrees  with  him  : 
the  only  thing  which  every  body  is  sure  of,  is  some  dreadful  du- 
ration of  agony  in  purgatory — the  great  horror  of  Catholic  death- 
beds. Protestantism  may  well  hug  itself  on  having  escaped  it. 
O  Luther !  vast  was  the  good  you  did  us.  O  gentle  Church  of 
England  !  let  nothing  persuade  you  that  it  is  better  to  preach 
frightful  and  foolish  ideas  of  God  from  your  pulpits,  than  loving- 
kindness  to  all  men,  and  peace  above  all  things. 

If  Dante  had  erred  only  on  the  side  of  indulgence,  humanity 
could  easily  have  forgiven  him — for  the  excesses  of  charity  are 
the  extensions  of  hope  ;  but,  unfortunately,  where  he  is  sweet- 
natured  once,  he  is  bitter  a  hundred  times.     This  is  the  impres- 
sion he  makes  on  universalists  of  all  creeds  and  parties  ;  that  is 
to  say,  on  men  who  having  run  the  whole  round  of  sympathy 
with  their  fellow-creatures,  become  the  only  final  judges  of  sove- 
reign  pretension.     It  is  very  well  for  individuals  to  make  a  god 
of  Dante  for  some  encouragement  of  their  own  position  or  pre- 
tension ;  but  a  god  for  the  world  at  large  he  never  was,  or  can 
be  ;  and  I  doubt  if  an  impression  to  this  effect  was  not  always 
from  the  very  dawn  of  our  literature,  the  one  entertained  of  hin 
by  the  genius  of  our  native   country,  which  could  never  lon^ 
endure  any  kind  of  unwarrantable  dictation.     Chaucer  evidently 
thought  him  a  man  who  would  spare  no  unnecessary  probe  to  th( 
feelings  (see  the  close  of  his  version  of  Ugolino).     Spenser  say 
not  a  word  of  him,  though  he  copied  Tasso,  and  eulogised  Ariosto 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  31 

Shakspeare  would  assuredly  h6,ve  put  him  into  the  list  of  those 
presumptuous  lookers  into  eternity  who  "  take  upon  themselves  to 
know''  (Cymbeline,  act  v.  so.  4).  Milton,  in  his  sonnet  to  Henry 
Lawes,  calls  iiim  "that  sad  Florentine" — a  lamenting  epithet,  by 
which  we  do  not  designate  a  man  whom  we  desire  to  resemble. 
The  historian  of  English  poetry,  admirably  applying  to  him  a 
passage  out  of  Milton,  says  that 

"  Hell  grows  darker  at  his  frown."* 

Walter  Scott  could  not  read  him,  at  least  not  with  pleasure.  He 
tells  Miss  Seward  that  the  "  plan"  of  the  poem  appeared  to  him 
"  unhappy  ;  the  personal  malignity  and  strange  mode  of  revenge 
presumptuous  and  uninteresting. "f  Uninteresting,  I  think,  it  is 
impossible  to  consider  it.  The  known  world  is  there,  and  the 
unknown  pretends  to  be  there ;  and  both  are  surely  interesting 
to  most  people. 

Landor,  in  his  delightful  book  the  Pentameron — a  book  full  of 
the  profoundest  as  well  as  sweetest  humanity — makes  Petrarch 
follow  up  Boccaccio's  eulogies  of  the  episode  of  Paulo  and  Fran- 
cesca  with  ebullitions  of  surprise  and  horror  : 

^'■Petrarca.  Perfection  of  poetry !  The  greater  is  my  won- 
der at  discovering  nothing  else  of  the  same  order  or  cast  in  this 
whole  section  of  the  poem.  He  who  fainted  at  the  recital  of 
Francesca, 

*  And  he  who  fell  as  a  dead  body  falls,' 

would  exterminate  all  the  inhabitants  of  every  town  in  Italy ! 
What  execrations  against  Florence,  Pistoia,  Pisa,  Siena,  Genoa  ! 
what  hatred  against  the  whole  human  race !  what  exultation  and 
merriment  at  eternal  and  immitigable  sufferings !  Seeing  this,  I 
cannot  but  consider  the  Inferno  as  the  most  immoral  and  impious 
book  that  ever  was  written.  Yet,  hopeless  that  our  country  shall 
ever  see  again  such  poetry,  and  certain  that  without  it  our  future 
poets  would  be  more  feebly  urged  forward  to  excellence,  I  would 

*  Warton's  History  of  English  Poetry,  edition  of  1840,  vol.  iii.  p.  214. 
t  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir  Waller  Scott,  Bart.  vol.  ii.  p.  122. 


32  DANTE. 


have  dissuaded  Dante  from  cancelling  it,  if  this  had  been  his  in- 
tention."* 

Most  happily  is  the  distinction  here  intimated  between  the  un- 
desirableness  of  Dante's  book  in  a  moral  and  religious  point  of 
view,  and  the  greater  desirableness  of  it,  nevertheless,  as  a  pat- 
tern of  poetry  ;  for  absurdity,  however  potent,  wears  itself  out  in 
the  end,  and  leaves  what  is  good  and  beautiful  to  vindicate  even 
so  foul  an  origin. 

Again,  Petrarch  says,  "  What  an  object  of  sadness  and  of  con- 
sternation, he  who  rises  up  from  hell  like  a  giant  refreshed ! 

^''Boccaccio.  Strange  perversion  !  A  pillar  of  smoke  by  day 
and  of  fire  by  night,  to  guide  no  one.  Paradise  had  fewer  wants 
for  him  to  satisfy  than  hell  had,  all  which  he  fed  to  repletion ;  but 
let  us  rather  look  to  his  poetry  than  his  temper." 

See  also  what  is  said  in  that  admirable  book  further  on  (p.  50), 
respecting  the  most  impious  and  absurd  passage  in  all  Dante's 
poem,  the  assumption  about  Divine  Love  in  the  inscription  over 
hell-gate — one  of  those  monstrosities  of  conception  which  none 
ever  had  the  effrontery  to  pretend  to  vindicate,  except  theologians 
who  profess  to  be  superior  to  the  priests  of  Moloch,  and  who  yet 
defy  every  feeling  of  decency  and  humanity  for  the  purpose  of 
explaining  their  own  worldly,  frightened,  or  hard-hearted  sub- 
mission to  the  mistakes  of  the  most  wretched  understandings. 

Ugo  Foscolo,  an  excellent  critic  where  his  own  temper  and  vi- 
olence did  not  interfere,  sees  nothing  but  jealousy  in  Petrarch's 
dislike  of  Dante,  and  nothing  but  Jesuitism  in  similar  feelings  en- 
tertained by  such  men  as  Tiraboschi.  But  all  gentle  and  con- 
siderate hearts^must  dislike  the  rage  and  bigotry  in  Dante,  even 
were  it  true  (as  the  Dantesque  Foscolo  thinks)  that  Italy  will  never 
be  regenerated  till  one-half  of  it  is  baptised  in  the  blood  of  the 
other  If  Such  men,  with  all  their  acuteness,  are  incapable  of 
seeing  what  can  be  effected  by  nobler  and  serener  times,  and  the 
progress  of  civilisation.  They  fancy,  no  doubt,  that  they  are  vin- 
dicating the  energies  of  Nature  herself,  and  the  inevitable  neces- 
sity of  "  doing  evil  that  good  may  come."     But  Dante  in  so  do- 

*  Pentameron  and  Pentalogia,  pp.  44-50. 

t  Discorso  sul  Testo,  p.  226.     The  whole  passage  (sect,  ex.)  is  very  elo- 
quent, horrible,  and  self -betraying. 


HIS   LIFE    AM)   GENIUS.  33 


ing  violated  the  Scripture  he  professed  to  revere ;  and  men  must 
not  assume  to  themselves  that  final  knowledge  of  results,  which 
is  the  only  warrant  of  the  privilege,  and  the  possession  of  which 
is  to  be  arrogated  by  no  earthly  wisdom.  One  calm  discovery 
of  science  may  do  away  with  all  the  boasted  eternal  necessities 
of  the  angry  and  the  self-idolatrous.  The  passions  that  may  be 
necessary  to  savages  are  not  bound  to  remain  so  to  civilised  men, 
any  more  than  the  eating  of  man's  flesh  or  the  worship  of  Jug- 
ghernaut.  When  we  think  of  the  wonderful  things  lately  done 
by  science  for  the  intercourse  of  the  world,  and  the  beautiful  and 
tranquil  books  of  philosophy  written  by  men  of  equal  energy  and 
benevolence,  and  opening  the  peacefulest  hopes  for  mankind,  and 
views  of  creation  to  which  Dante's  universe  was  a  nutshell, — 
such  a  vision  as  that  of  his  poem  (in  a  theological  point  of  view) 
seems  no  better  than  the  dream  of  an  hypochondriacl  savage,  and 
his  nutshell  a  rottenness  to  be  spit  out  of  the  mouth. 

Heaven  send  that  the  great  poet's  want  of  charity  has  not  made 
myself  presumptuous  and  uncharitable  !  But  it  is  in  the  name 
of  society  I  speak ;  and  words,  at  all  events,  now-a-days  are  not 
the  terrible,  stake-preceding  things  they  were  in  his.  Readers  in 
general,  however — even  those  of  the  literary  world — have  little 
conception  of  the  extent  to  which  Dante  carries  either  his  cruelty 
or  his  abuse.  The  former  (of  which  I  shall  give  some  examples 
presently)  shews  appalling  habits  of  personal  resentment ;  the 
latter  is  outrageous  to  a  pitch  of  the  ludicrous — positively  scream- 
ing. I  will  give  some  specimens  of  it  out  of  Foscolo  himself, 
who  collects  them  for  a  different  purpose ;  though,  with  all  his 
idolatry  of  Dante,  he  was  far  from  being  insensible  to  his  mis- 
takes. 

"  The  people  of  Sienna,"  according  to  this  national  and  Chris- 
tian poet,  were  "  a  parcel  of  coxcombs  ;  those  of  Arezzo,  dogs  ; 
and  of  Casentino,  hogs.  Lucca  made  a  trade  of  perjury.  Pis- 
toia  was  a  den  of  beasts,  and  ought  to  be  reduced  to  ashes  ;  and 
the  river  Arno  should  overflow  and  drown  every  soul  in  Pisa. 
Almost  all  the  women  in  Florence  walked  half-naked  in  public, 
and  were  abandoned  in  private.  Every  brother,  husband,  son, 
and  father,  in  Bologna,  set  their  women  to  sale.  In  all  Lombardy 
were  not  to  be   found  three  men  who  were  not  rascals  ;  and  in 

3 


34  DANTE. 


Genoa  and  Romagna  people  went  about  pretending  to  be  men, 
but  in  reality  were  bodies  inhabited  by  devils,  their  souls  having 
gone  to  the  '  lowest  pit  of  hell'  to  join  the  betrayers  of  their 
friends  and  kinsmen."* 

So  much  for  his  beloved  countrymen.  As  for  foreigners,  par- 
ticularly kings,  "  Edward  the  First  of  England,  and  Robert  of 
Scotland,  were  a  couple  of  grasping  fools  ;  the  Emperor  Albert 
was  an  usurper  ;  Alphonso  the  Second,  of  Spain,  a  debauchee  ; 
the  King  of  Bohemia  a  coward  ;  Frederick  of  Arragon  a  coward 
and  miser  ;  the  Kings  of  Portugal  and  Norway  forgers  ;  the 
King  of  Naples  a  man  whose  virtues  were  expressed  by  a  unit, 
and  his  vices  by  a  million  ;  and  the  King  of  France,  the  de- 
scendant of  a  Paris  butcher,  and  of  progenitors  who  poisoned  St. 
Thomas  Aquinas,  their  descendants  conquering  with  the  arms  of 
Judas  rather  than  of  soldiers,  and  selling  the  flesh  of  their  daugh- 
ters to  old  men,  in  order  to  extricate  themselves  from  a  danger,  "j" 

When  we  add  to  these  invectives,  damnations  of  friends  as 
well  as  foes,  of  companions,  lawyers,  men  of  letters,  princes, 
philosophers,  popes,  pagans,  innocent  people  as  well  as  guilty, 
fools  and  wise,  capable  and  incapable,  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren,— it  is  really  no  better  than  a  kind  of  diabolical  sublimation 
of  Lord  Thurlow's  anathemas  in  the  Rolliad,  which  begins  with 

"  Damnation  seize  ye  all ;" 
and  ends  with 

"  Damn  them  beyond  what  mortal  tongue  can  tell, 
Confound,  sink,  plunge  them  all  to  deepest,  blackest  hell."t 

In  the  gross,  indeed,  this  is  ridiculous  enough.  No  burlesque 
can  beat  it.  But  in  the  particular,  one  is  astonished  and  sad- 
dened at  the  cruelties  in  which  the  poet  allows  his  imagination  to 
riot :  horrors  generally  described  with  too  intense  a  verisimili- 
tude not  to  excite  our  admiration,  with  too  astounding  a  perse- 
verance not  to  amaze  our  humanity,  and  sometimes  with  an 
amount  of  positive  joy  and   delight  that   makes  us  ready  to  shut 

*  Discorso,  as  above,  p.  101.  t  Discorso,  p.  103. 

-  t  Criticisms  on  the  Rolliady  and  Probationary  Odes  for  the  Laureateship. 
Third  edit.  1785,  p.  317. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  35 


the  book  with  disgust  and  indignation.     Tlius,  in  a  circle  in  hell, 
where  traitors  are  stuck  up  to  their  chins  in   ice  (canto  xxxii.), 
the  visitor,  in  walking  about,  happens  to  give   one  of  their  faces 
a  kick  ;  the  suHerer  weeps,  and  then  curses  him — with  such  in- 
fernal truth  does  the  writer  combine  the  malignant  with  the  pa- 
thetic !     Dante  replies  to  the  curse  by  asking  the  man  his  name. 
He  is  refused  it.     He  then  seizes  the   miserable  wretch   by  the 
hair,  in  order  to  force  him  to  the  disclosure  ;  and  Virgil  is  rep- 
resented  as  commending   the  barbarity  !*     But   he  does  worse. 
To  barbarity  he  adds  treachery  of  his  own.     He  tells  another 
poor  wretch,  whose  face  is  iced  up  with  his  tears,  as  if  he  had  worn 
a  crystal  vizor,  that  if  he  will  disclose  his  name  and  offence,  he 
will  relieve  his  eyes  awhile,  that  he  may  weep.     The  man  does 
so  ;   and  the  ferocious  poet  then   refuses  to  perform  his  promise, 
adding  mockery  to  falsehood,  and  observing  that  ill  manners  are 
the  only  courtesy  proper  towards  such  a  fellow  !f     It  has  been 
conjectured  that  Macchiavelli  apparently  encouraged  the  enormi- 
ties of  the  princes  of  his  time,  with  a  design   to  expose  them  to 
indignation.     It  might  have  been  thought  of  Dante,  if  he  had 
not  taken  a  part  in  the  cruelty,  that  he  detailed  the  horrors  of  his 
hell  out  of  a  wish  to  disgust  the  world  with  its   frightful  notions 
of  God.     This  is  certainly  the  effect  of  the  worse  part  of  his  de- 
scriptions in  an  age  like  the  present.     Black  burning  gulfs,  full 
of  outcries  and  blasphemy,  feet  red-hot  with  fire,  men  eternally 
eating  their  fellow-creatures,  frozen  wretches  malignantly  dash- 
ing their  iced  heads  against  one  another,  other  adversaries  mu- 
tually exchanging  shapes  by  force  of  an  attraction  at  once  irre- 
sistible and  loathing,  and  spitting  with  hate  and  disgust  when  it  is 
done — Enough,  enough,  for  God's  sake !     Take  the  disgust  out 
of  one's  senses,  O  flower  of  true   Christian  wisdom  and  charity, 
now  beginning  to  fill  the  air  with  fragrance  ! 

But  it  will  be  said  that  Dante  did  all  this  out  of  his  hate  of 

*  The  writer  of  the  article  on  Dante  in  the  Foreign  Quarterly  Review  (as 
above)  concedes  that  his  hero  in  this  passage  becomes  "  almost  cruel."  Almost  I 
Tormenting  a  man  further,  who  is  up  to  his  chin  in  everlasting  ice,  and  whose 
face  he  has  kicked  I 

t  "  Cortesia  fu  lui  esser  villano." 

Inferno,  canto  xxxiii.  150. 


36  DANTE. 


« 


cruelty  itself,  and  of  treachery  itself.  Partly  no  doubt  he  di(^ ; 
and  entirely  he  thought  he  did.  But  see  how  the  notions  of  sucfi 
retribution  react  upon  the  judge,  and  produce  in  him  the  bad  pas- 
sions he  punishes.  It  is  true  the  punishments  are  imaginary. 
Were  a  human  being  actually  to  see  such  things,  he  must  be  de- 
humanised or  he  would  cry  cut  against  them  with  horror  and  de- 
testation. But  the  poem  draws  them  as  truths  ;  the  writer's 
creed  threatened  them ;  h'e  himself  contributed  to  maintain  the 
belief;  and  however  we  may  suppose  such  a  belief  to  have  had 
its  use  in  giving  alarm  to  ruffian  passions  and  barbarously  igno- 
rant times,  an  age  arrives  when  a  beneficent  Providence  permits 
itself  to  be  better  understood,  and  dissipates  the  superfluous  horror. 

Many,  indeed,  of  the  absurdities  of  Dante's  poem  are  too  ob- 
vious now-a-days  to  need  remark.  Even  the  composition  of  the 
poem,  egotistically  said  to  be  faultless  by  such  critics  as  Alfieri, 
who  thought  they  resembled  him,  partakes,  as  every  body's  style 
does,  of  the  faults  as  well  as  good  qualities  of  the  man.  It  is 
nervous,  concise,  full  almost  as  it  can  hold,  picturesque,  mighty, 
primeval ;  but  it  is  often  obscure,  often  harsh,  and  forced  in  its 
constructions,  defective  in  melody,  and  wilful  and  superfluous  in 
the  rhyme.  Sometimes,  also,  the  writer  is  inconsistent  in  cir- 
cumstance (probably  from  not  having  corrected  the  poem)  ;  and 
he  is  not  above  being  filthy.  Even  in  the  episode  of  Paulo  and 
Francesca,  which  has  so  often  been  pronounced  faultless,  and 
which  is  unquestionably  one  of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  of  wri- 
ting in  the  world,  some  of  these  faults  are  observable,  particular- 
ly in  the  obscurity  of  the  passage  about  tolta  forma,  the  cessation 
of  the  incessant  tempest,  and  the  non- adjuration  of  the  two  lovers 
in  the  manner  that  Virgil  prescribes. 

But  truly  it  is  said,  that  when  Dante  is  great,  nobody  surpass- 
es him.  I  doubt  if  anybody  equals  him,  as  to  the  constant  inten- 
sity and  incessant  variety  of  his  pictures  ;  and  whatever  he 
paints,  he  throws,  as  it  were,  upon  its  own  powers ;  as  though  an 
artist  should  draw  figures  that  started  into  life,  and  proceeded  to 
action  for  themselves,  frightening  their  creator.  Every  motion, 
word,  and  look  of  these  creatures  becomes  full  of  sensibility  and 
suggestions.  The  invisible  is  at  the  back  of  the  visible ;  dark- 
ness  becomes  palpable  ;  silence  describes  a  character,  nay,  forms 


HIS  LIFE  AND  GENIUS.  37 


the  most  striking  part  of  a  story  ;  a  word  acts  as  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, which  disph\ys  some  gloomy  neighbourhood,  where  a  tower 
is  standing,  with  dreadful  faces  at  the  window  ;  or  where,  at 
your  feet,  full  of  eternal  voices,  one  abyss  is  beheld  dropping  out 
of  another  in  the  lurid  light  of  torment.  In  the  present  volume 
a  story  will  be  found  which  tells  a  long  tragedy  in  half-a-dozen 
lines.  Dante  has  the  minute  probabilities  of  a  Defoe  in  the 
midst  of  the  loftiest  and  most  generalising  poetry  ;  and  this  feel- 
ing of  matter-of-fact  is  impressed  by  fictions  the  most  improbable, 
nay,  the  most  ridiculous  and  revolting.  You  laugh  at  the  ab- 
surdity ;  you  are  shocked  at  the  detestable  cruelty  ;  yet,  for  the 
moment,  the  thing  almost  seems  as  if  it  must  be  true.  You  feel 
as  you  do  in  a  dream,  and  after  it ; — you  wake  and  laugh,  but 
the  absurdity  seemed  true  at  the  time  ;  and  while  you  laugh  you 
shudder. 

Enough  of  this  crueller  part  of  his  genius  has  been  exhibited  ; 
but  it  is  seldom  you  can  have  the  genius  without  sadness.  In 
the  circle  of  hell,  soothsayers  walk  along  weeping,  with  their 
faces  turned  the  wrong  way,  so  that  their  tears  fall  between  their  • 
shoulders.  The  picture  is  still  more  dreadful.  Warton  thinks 
it  ridiculous.  But  I  cannot  help  feeling  with  the  poet,  that  it  is 
dreadfully  pathetic.  It  is  the  last  mortifying  insult  to  human 
pretension.  Warton,  who  has  a  grudge  against  Dante  natural  to 
a  man  of  happier  piety,  thinks  him  ridiculous  also  in  describing 
the  monster  Geryon  lying  upon  the  edge  of  one  of  the  gulfs 
of  hell  "  like  a  beaver"  (canto  xvii.).  He  is  of  opinion  that  the 
.writer  only  does  it  to  show  his  knowledge  of  natural  history. 
But  surely  the  idea  of  so  strange  and  awful  a  creature  (a  huge 
mild-faced  man  ending  in  a  dragon's  body)  lying  familiarly  on 
the  edge  of  the  gulf,  as  a  beaver  does  by  the  water,  combines  the 
supernatural  with  the  familiar  in  a  very  impressive  manner.  It 
is  this  combination  of  extremes  which  is  the  life  and  soul  of  the 
whole  poem  ;  you  have  this  world  in  the  next ;  the  same  persons, 
passions,  remembrances,  intensified  by  superhuman  despairs  or 
beatitudes  ;  the  speechless  entrancements  of  bliss,  the  purgatorial 
trials  of  hope  and  patience  ;  the  supports  of  hate  and  anger  (such 
as  they  are)  in  hell  itself;  nay,  of  loving  despairs,  and  a  self- 
pity   made   unboundedly  pathetic  by  endless  suffering.      Hence 


38  DANTE. 


there  is  no  love-story  so  affecting  as  that  of  Paulo  and  Francesca 
thus  told  and  perpetuated  in  another  world ;  no  father's  misery 
so  enforced  upon  as  Ugolino's,  who,  for  hundreds  of  years,  has 
not  grown  tired  of  the  revenge  to  which  it  wrought  him.  Dante 
even  puts  this  weight  and  continuity  of  feeling  into  passages  of 
mere  transient  emotion  or  illustration,  unconnected  with  the  next 
world ;  as  in  the  famous  instance  of  the  verses  about  evening, 
and  many  others  which  the  reader  will  meet  with  in  this  volume. 
Indeed,  if  pathos  and  the  most  impressive  simplicity,  and  grace- 
ful beauty  of  all  kinds,  and  abundant  grandeur,  can  pay  (as  the 
reader,  I  believe,  will  think  it  does  even  in  a  prose  abstract),  for 
the  pangs  of  moral  discord  and  absurdity  inflicted  by  the  perusal 
of  Dante's  poem,  it  may  challenge  competition  with  any  in  point 
of  interest.  His  Heaven,  it  is  true,  though  containing  both  sub- 
lime and  lovely  passages,  is  not  so  good  as  his  Earth.  The 
more  unearthly  he  tried  to  make  it,  the  less  heavenly  it  became. 
When  he  is  content  with  earth  in  heaven  itself, — when  he  literal- 
ises  a  metaphor,  and  with  exquisite  felicity  finds  himself  arrived 
there  in  consequence  of  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  eyes  of  Beatrice, 
then  he  is  most  celestial.  But  his  endeavours  to  express  degrees 
of  beatitude  and  holiness  by  varieties  of  flame  and  light, — of 
dancing  lights,  revolving  lights,  lights  of  smiles,  of  stars,  of  star- 
ry crosses,  of  didactic  letters  and  sentences,  of  animal  figures 
made  up  of  stars  full  of  blessed  souls,  with  saints  forming  am 
eagle's  beak  and  David  in  its  eye  ! — such  superhuman  attempt 
become  for  the  most  part  tricks  of  theatrical  machinery,  on  which] 
we  gaze  with  little  curiosity  and  no  respect. 

His  angels,  however,  are  another  matter.  Belief  was  prepare 
for  those  winged  human  forms,  and  they  furnished  him  with  some 
of  his  most  beautiful  combinations  of  the  natural  with  the  super- 
natural. Ginguene  has  remarked  the  singular  variety  as  well  as 
beauty  of  Dante's  angels.  Milton's,  indeed,  are  commonplace  in 
the  comparison.  In  the  eighth  canto  of  the  Inferno,  the  devils  in- 
solently refuse  the  poet  and  his  guide  an  entrance  into  the  city  of 
Dis  : — an  angel  comes  sweeping  over  the  Stygian  lake  to  enforce 
it ;  the  noise  of  his  wings  makes  the  shores  tremble,  and  is  like 
a  crashing  whirlwind  such  as  beats  down  the  trees  and  sends  the 
peasants  and  their  herds  flying  before  it.     The  heavenly  messen- 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  39 


ger,  after  rebuking  the  devils,  touches  the  portals  of  the  city  with 
his  wand  ;  they  fly  open  ;  and  he  returns  the  way  he  came  with- 
out uttering  a  word  to  the  two  companions.  His  face  was  that 
of  one  occupied  with  other  thoughts.  This  angel  is  announced 
by  a  tempest.  Another,  who  brings  the  souls  of  the  departed  to 
Purgatory,  is  first  discovered  at  a  distance,  gradually  disclosing 
white  splendours,  which  are  his  wings  and  garments.  He  comes 
in  a  boat,  of  which  his  wings  are  the  sails  ;  and  as  he  approaches, 
it  is  impossible  to  look  him  in  the  face  for  its  brightness.  Two 
other  angels  have  green  wings  and  green  garments,  and  the  dra- 
pery is  kept  in  motion  like  a  flag  by  the  vehement  action  of  the 
wiijgs.  A  fifth  has  a  face  like  the  morning  star,  casting  forth 
quivering  beams.  A  sixth  is  of  a  lustre  so  oppressive,  that  the 
poet  feels  a  weight  on  his  eyes  before  he  knows  what  incoming. 
Another's  presence  affects  the  senses  like  the  fragrance  of  a  May- 
morning  ;  and  another  is  in  garments  dark  as  cinders,  but  has  a' 
sword  in  his  hand  too  sparkling  to  be  gazed  at.  Dante's  occa- 
sional pictures  of  the  beauties  of  external  nature  are  worthy  of 
these  angelic  creations,  and  to  the  last  degree  fresh  and  lovely. 
You  long  to  bathe  your  eyes,  smarting  with  the  fumes  of  hell,  in 
his  dews.  You  gaze  enchanted  on  his  green  fields  and  his  celes- 
tial blue  skies,  the  more  so  from  the  pain  and  sorrow  in  midst  of 
which  the  visions  are  created. 

Dante's  grandeur  of  every  kind  is  proportionate  to  that  of  his 
angels,  almost  to  his  ferocity  ;  and  that  is  saying  every  thing. 
It  is  not  always  the  spiritual  grandeur  of  Milton,  the  subjection 
of  the  material  impression  to  the  moral ;  but  it  is  equally  such 
when  he  chooses,  and  far  more  abundant.  His  infernal  precipices 
— his  black  whirlwinds — his  innumerable  cries  and  claspings  of 
hands — his  very  odours  of  huge  loathsomeness — his  giants  at  twi- 
light standing  up  to  the  middle  in  pits,  like  towers,  and  causing 
earthquakes  when  they  move — his  earthquake  of  the  mountain  in 
Purgatory,  when  a  spirit  is  set  free  for  heaven — his  dignified 
Mantuan  Sordello,  silently  regarding  him  and  his  guide  aS  they 
go  by,  "  like  a  lion  on  his  watch" — his  blasphemer,  Capaneus, 
lying  in  unconquered  rage  and  sullenness  under  an  eternal  rain 
of  flakes  of  fire  (human  precursor  of  Milton's  Satan) — his  aspect 
of  Paradise,  "  as  if  the  universe  had  smiled" — his  inhabitants  of 


40  DANTE. 


the  whole  planet  Saturn  crying  out  so  loud,  in  accordance  with 
the  anti-papal  indignation  of  Saint  Pietro  Damiano,  that  the  poet, 
though  among  them,  could  not  hear  what  they  said — and  the  blush- 
ing eclipse,  like  red  clouds  at  sunset,  which  takes  place  at  the 
apostle   Peter's  denunciation  of  the  sanguinary  filth  of  the  court 
of  Rome — all  these  sublimities,  and  many  more,  make  us  not 
know  whether  to  be  more  astonished  at  the  greatness  of  the  poet 
or  the   raging  littleness  of  the  man.     Grievous  is  it  to  be  forced 
to  bring  two  such  opposites  together ;  and  I  wish,  for  the  honour 
and  glory  of  poetry,  I  did  not  feel  compelled  to  do  so.     But  the 
swarthy    Florentine    had   not   the    healthy   temperament  of  his 
brethren,  and  he  fell  upon  evil  times.     Compared  with  Homer 
/and  Shakspeare,  his  very  intensity  seems  only  superior  to  theirs 
i   from  an  excess  of  the  morbid ;   and  he  is  inferior  to  both  in  other 
^sovereign  qualities  of  poetry — to  the  one,  in  giving  you  the  health- 
iest general  impression  of  nature  itself — to  Shakspeare,  in  bound- 
less universality — to  most  great  poets,  in  thorough  harmony  and 
delightfulness.     He  wanted  (generally  speaking)  the  music  of  a 
happy  and  a  happy-making  disposition.     Homer,  from  his  large 
vital  bosom,  breathes  like  a  broad  fresh  air  over  the  world,  amidst 
alternate  storm  and  sunshine,  making  you  aware  that  there  is 
rough  work  to  be  faced,   but  also  activity  and  beauty  to  be  en- 
joyed.    The  feeling  of  health  and  strength  is  predominant.    Life 
laughs  at  death  itself,  or  meets  it  with  a  noble  confidence — is  not 
taught  to  dread  it  as  a  malignant  goblin.     Shakspeare  has  all  the 
smiles  as  well  as  tears  of  nature,  and  discerns  the  "  soul  of  good- 
ness in  things  evil."     He'  is  comedy  as  well  as  tragedy — the  en- 
tire man   in   all   his  qualities,  moods,  and  experiences  ;   and  he 
beautifies  all.     And  both  those  truly  divine  poets  make  nature 
their  subject  through  her  own  inspiriting  medium — not  through 
the  darkened  glass  of  one  man's  spleen  and  resentment.^   Dante, 
in  constituting  himself  the  hero  of  his  poem,  not  only  renders 
her,  in  the  general  impression,  as  dreary  as  himself,  in  spite  of 
the  occasional  beautiful  pictures  he  draws  of  her,  but  narrows  her 
very  immensity  into  his  pettiness.     He  fancied,  alas,  that  he  could 
build  her  universe  over  again  out  of  the  politics  of  old  Rome  and 
the  divinity  of  the  schools  ! 

Dante,  besides  his  great  poem,  and  a  few  Latin  eclogues,  of  no 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  41 

great  value,  wrote  lyrics  full  of  Platonical  sentiment,  some  of 
which  anticipated  the  loveliest  of  Petrarch's ;  and  he  was  the 
author  of  various  prose  works,  political  and  philosophical,  all 
more  or  less  masterly  for  the  time  in  which  he  lived,  and  all  co- 
adjutors of  his  poetry  in  fixing  his  native  toni^ue.  His  account 
of  his  Early  Life  (the  Vita  Nuova)  is  a  most  engaging  history 
of  a  boyish  passion,  evidently  as  real  and  true  on  his  own  side  as 
love  and  truth  can  be,  whatever  might  be  its  mistake  as  to  its  ob- 
ject. The  treatise  on  the  Vernacular  Tongue  (de  Vulgari  Elo- 
quio)  shews  how  critically  he  considered  his  materials  for  im- 
pressing the  world,  and  what  a  reader  he  was  of  every  production 
of  his  contemporaries.  The  Banquet  (Convito)  is  but  an  abstruse 
commentary  on  some  of  his  minor  poems ;  but  the  book  on  Mon- 
archy (de  Monarchia)  is  a  compound  of  ability  and  absurdity,  in 
which  his  great  genius  is  fairly  overborne  by  the  barbarous  ped- 
antry of  the  age.  It  is  an  argument  to  prove  that  the  world  must 
all  be  governed  by  one  man  ;  that  this  one  man  must  be  the  suc- 
cessor of  the  Roman  Emperor — God  having  manifestly  designed 
the  world  to  be  subject  for  ever  to  the  Roman  empire  ;  and  last- 
ly, that  this  Emperor  is  equally  designed  by  God  to  be  indepen- 
dent of  the  Pope — spiritually  subject  to  him,  indeed,  but  so  far 
only  as  a  good  son  is  subject  to  the  religious  advice  of  his  father ; 
and  thus  making  Church  and  State  happy  for  ever  in  the  two  di- 
vided supremacies.  And  all  this  assumption  of  the  obsolete  and 
impossible  the  author  gravely  proves  in  all  the  forms  of  logic,  by 
arguments  drawn  from  the  history  of  ^neas,  and  the  providential 
cackle  of  the  Roman  geese ! 

How  can  the  patriots  of  modern  Italy,  justified  as  they  are  in 
extolling  the  poet  to  the  skies,  see  him  plunge  into  such  depths  of 
bigotry  in  his  verse  and  childishness  in  his  prose,  and  consent  to 
perplex  the  friends  of  advancement  with  making  a  type  of  their 
success  out  of  so  erring  though  so  great  a  man  ?  Such  slavish- 
ness,  even  to  such  greatness,  is  a  poor  and  unpromising  thing, 
compared  with  an  altogether  unprejudiced  and  forward-looking 
self-reliance.  To  have  no  faith  in  names  has  been  announced  as 
one  of  their  principles  ;  and  "  God  and  Humanity  "  is  their  motto. 
What,  therefore,  has  Dante's  name  to  do  with  their  principles  ? 
or  what  have  the  semi-barbarisms  of  the  thirteenth  century  to  do 


42  DANTE. 


with  the  final  triumph  of  "  God  and  Humanity  ?"  Dante's  lauded 
wish  for  that  union  of  the  Italian  States,  which  his  fame  has  led 
them  so  fondly  to  identify  with  their  own,  was  but  a  portion  of 
his  greater  and  prouder  wish  to  see  the  whole  world  at  the  feet 
of  his  boasted  ancestress,  Rome.  Not,  of  course,  that  he  had  no 
view  to  what  he  considered  good  and  just  government  (for  what 
sane  despot  purposes  to  rule  without  that  ?) ;  but  his  good  and 
just  government  was  always  to  be  founded  on  the  sine  qua  non 
principle  of  universal  Italian  domination.* 

All  that  Dante  said  or  did  has  its  interest  for  us  in  spite  of  his 
errors,  because  he  was  an  earnest  and  suffering  man  and  a  great 
genius  ;  but  his  fame  must  ever  continue  to  lie  where  his  greatest 
blame  does,  in  his  principal  work.  He  was  a  gratuitous  logician, 
a  preposterous  politician,  a  cruel  theologian ;  but  his  wonderful 
imagination,  and  (considering  the  bitterness  that  was  in  him)  still 
more  wonderful  sweetness,  have  gone  into  the  hearts  of  his  fel- 
low-creatures, and  will  remain  there  in  spite  of  the  moral  and 
religious  absurdities  with  which  they  are  mingled,  and  of  the  in- 
ability which  the  best-natured  readers  feel  to  associate  his  entire 
memory,  as  a  poet,  with  their  usual  personal  delight  in  a  poet 
and  his  name. 

*  Every  body  sees  this  who  is  not  wilfully  blind.  "  Passionate,"  says  the  editor 
of  the  Opere  Minori,  "  for  the  ancient  Italian  glories,  and  the  greatness  of  the 
Roman  name,  he  was  of  opinion  that  it  was  only  by  means  of  combined  strength, 
and  one  common  government,  that  Italy  could  be  finally  secured  from  discord 
in  its  own  bosom  and  enemies  from  without,  and  recover  its  ancient  empire 
over  the  whole  world."  "  Amantissimo  delle  antiche  glorie  Italiane,  e  della 
grandezza  del  noma  romano,  ei  considerava,  che  soltanto  pel  mezzo  d'  una  gen- 
eral forza  ed  autorit^  poteva  1'  Italia  dalle  interne  contese  e  dalle  straniere  in- 
vasioni  restarsi  sicura,  e  recuperate  V  antico imperio  sopra  tutte  le genti" — Ut 
sup.  vol.  iii.  p.  & 


THE  ITALIAN  PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


1 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH   HELL 


Argument. 

The  infernal  regions,  according  to  Dante,  are  situate  in  the  globe  we  inhabit, 
directly  beneath  Jerusalem,  and  consist  of  a  succession  of  giilfs  or  circles,  nar- 
rowing as  they  descend,  and  tenninating  in  the  centre  ;  so  that  the  general 
shape  is  that  of  a  funneL  Commentators  have  differed  as  to  their  magnitude  ; 
but  the  latest  calculation  gives  315  miles  for  the  diameter  of  the  mouth  or  cra- 
ter, and  a  quarter  of  a  mile  for  that  of  its  terminating  point.  In  the  middle  is 
the  abyss,  p>ervading  the  whole  depth,  and  245  miles  in  diameter  at  the  open- 
ing ;  which  reduces  the  different  platforms,  or  territories  that  surround  it,  to  a 
size  comparatively  small.  These  territories  are  more  or  less  varied  with  land 
and  water,  lakes,  precipices,  &c.  A  precipice,  fourteen  miles  high,  divides  the 
first  of  them  from  the  second.  The  peissages  from  the  upper  world  to  the  en- 
trance are  various ;  and  the  descents  from  one  circle  to  another  are  effected  by 
the  poet  and  his  guide  in  different  manners — sometimes  on  foot  through  by- 
ways, sometimes  by  the  conveyance  of  supernatural  beings.  The  crater  he 
finds  to  be  the  abode  of  those  who  have  done  neither  good  nor  evil,  caring  for 
nothing  but  themselves.  In  the  first  circle  are  the  whole  unbaptised  world — 
heathens  and  infants — melancholy,  though  not  tormented.  Here  also  is  found 
the  Elysium  of  Virgil,  whose  Charon  and  other  infernal  beings  are  among  the 
agents  of  torment.  In  the  second  circle  the  torments  commence  with  the  sin 
of  incontinence  ;  and  the  punishment  goes  deepening  with  the  crime  from  cir- 
cle to  circle,  through  gluttony,  avarice,  prodigality,  wrath,  sullenness,  or  unwil- 
lingness to  be  pleased  with  the  creation,  disbelief  in  God  and  the  soul  (with 
which  the  punishment  by  fire  commences),  usur>',  murder,  suicide,  blas- 
phemy, seduction  and  other  carnal  enormities,  adulation,  simony,  soothsaying, 
astrology-,  witchcraft,  trafficking  with  the  public  interest,  hypocrisy,  highway 
robbery  (on  the  great  Italian  scalej,  sacrilege,  evil  counsel,  disturbance  of  the 
Church,  heresy,  false  apostleship,  alchemy,  forgery,  coining  (all  these,  from  se- 
duction downwards,  in  one  circle)  ;  then,  in  the  frozen  or  lowest  circle  of  all, 


46  ARGUMENT. 


treachery ;  and  at  the  bottom  of  this  is  Satan,  stuck  into  the  centre  of  the 
earth. 

With  the  centre  of  the  globe  commences  the  antipodean  attraction  of  its 
opposite  side,  together  with  a  rocky  ascent  out  of  it,  through  a  huge  ravine. 
The  poet  and  his  guide,  on  their  arrival  at  this  spot,  accordingly  find  their  po- 
sition reversed  ;  and  so  conclude  their  downward  journey  upwards,  till  they 
issue  forth  to  light  on  the  borders  of  the  «ea  which  contains  the  island  of  Pur- 
gatory. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HELL, 


Dante  says,  that  when  he  was  half-way  on  his  pilgrimage 
through  this  life,  he  one  day  found  himself,  towards  nightfall,  in  a 
wood  where  he  could  no  longer  discern  the  right  path.  It  was  a 
place  so  gloomy  and  terrible,  every  thing  in  it  growing  in  such  a 
strange  and  savage  manner,  that  the  horror  he  felt  returned  on 
him  whenever  he  thought  of  it.  The  pass  of  death  could  hardly 
be  more  bitter.  Travelling  through  it  all  night  with  a  beating 
heart,  he  at  length  came  to  the  foot  of  a  hill,  and  looking  up,  as 
he  began  to  ascend  it,  he  perceived  the  shoulders  of  the  hill  clad 
in  the  beams  of  morning  ;  a  sight  which  gave  him  some  little 
comfort.  He  felt  like  a  man  who  has  buffeted  his  way  to  land 
out  of  a  shipwreck,  and  who,  though  still  anxious  to  get  farther 
from  his  peril,  cannot  help  turning  round  to  gaze  on  the  wide  wa- 
ters. So  did  he  stand  looking  back  on  the  pass  that  contained 
that  dreadful  wood. 

After  resting  a  while,  he  again  betook  him  up  the  hill ;  but 
had  not  gone  far  when  he  beheld  a  leopard  bounding  in  front  of 
him,  and  hindering  his  progress.  After  the  leopard  came  a  lion, 
with  his  head  aloft,  mad  with  hunger,  and  seeming  to  frighten 
the  very  air  ;*  and  after  the  lion,  more  eager  still,  a  she-wolf,  so 
lean  that  she  appeared  to  be  sharpened  with  every  wolfish  want. 
The  pilgrim  fled  back  in  terror  to  the  wood,  where  he  again 
found  himself  in  a  darkness  to  which  the  light  never  penetrated. 
In  that  place,  he  said,  the  sun  never  spoke  word.f  But  the  wolf 
was  still  close  upon  him.:|: 

*  **  Parea  che  l'  aer  ne  temesse." 
t  '♦  La  dove  '1  sol  tace." 

"  The  sun  to  me  is  dark, 
And  silent  is  the  moon,  ,  « 

Hid  in  her  vacant  interlunar  cave." — Milton. 
t  There  is  great  difTerence  among  tiae  commentators  respecting  tlie  mean- 


48  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 

While  thus  flying,  he  beheld  coming  towards  him  a  man,  who 
spoke  something,  but  he  knew  not  what.  The  voice  sounded 
strange  and  feeble,  as  if  from  disuse.  Dante  loudly  called  out  to 
him  to  save  him,  whether  he  was  a  man  or  only  a  spirit.  The 
apparition,  at  whose  sight  the  wild  beasts  disappeared,  said  that 
he  was  no  longer  man,  though  man  he  had  been  in  the  time  of  the 
false  gods,  and  sung  the  history  of  the  offspring  of  Anchises. 

"  And  art  thou,  then,  that  Virgil,"  said  Dante,  "  who  has  filled 
the  world  with  such  floods  of  eloquence  ?  O  glory  and  light  of 
all  poets,  thou  art  my  master,  and  thou  mine  author  ;  thou  alone 
the  book  from  which  I  have  gathered  beauties  that  have  gained 
me  praise.  Behold  the  peril  I  am  in,  and  help  me,  for  I  tremble 
in  every  vein  and  pulse." 

Virgil  comforted  Dante.  He  told  him  that  he  must  quit  the 
wood  by  another  road,  and  that  he  himself  would  be  his  guide, 
leading  him  first  to  behold  the  regions  of  woe  underground,  and 
then  the  spirits  that  lived  content  in  fire  because  it  purified  them 
for  heaven ;  and  then  that  he  would  consign  him  to  other  hands 
worthier  than  his  own,  which  should  raise  him  to  behold  heaven 
itself;  for  as  the  Pagans,  of  whom  he  was  one,  had  been  rebels 
to  the  law  of  him  that  reigns  there,  nobody  could  arrive  at  Par- 
adise by  their  means.* 

ing  of  the  three  beasts  ;  some  supposing  them  passions,  others  political  troubles, 
others  personal  enemies,  &lc.  The  point  is  not  of  much  importance,  especially 
as  a  mystery  was  intended  ;  but  nobody,  as  Mr.  Gary  says,  can  doubt  that  the 
passage  was  suggested  by  one  in  the  prophet  Jeremiah,  v.  6  :  "  Wherefore  a 
lion  out  of  the  forest  shall  slay  them,  and  a  wolf  of  the  evenings  shall  spoil 
them  ;  a  leopard  shall  watch  over  their  cities." 

*  "  Che  quelle  'mperador  che  \k  su  regna 

Perch'  i'  fu'  ribellante  a  la  sua  legge, 

Non  vuol  che  'n  sua  cittJi  per  me  si  vegna." 

The  Pagans  could  not  be  rebels  to  a  law  they  never  heard  of,  any  more  than 

Dante  could  be  a  rebel  to  Luther.     But  this  is  one  of  the  absurdities  with  which 

the  impious  eHrontery  or  scarcely  less  impious  admissions  of  Dante's  teachers 

avowrdly  set  reason  at  defiance,— retaining,  meanwhile,  their  right  of  contempt 

for  the  impieties  of  Mahometans  and  Brahmins ;  "  which  is  odd,"  as  the  poet 

» Bays  ;  for  beii»g  not  less  absurd,  or,  as  the  others  argued,  much  more  so,  they 

had  at  least  an  equal  claim  on  the  submission  of  the  reason  ;  since  the  greater 

the  irrationality,  the  higher  the  theological  triumph. 


THE   JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  49 


So  saying,  Virgil  moved  on  his  way,  and  Dante  closely  fol- 
lowed. He  expressed  a  fear,  however,  as  tliey  went,  lest  being 
"neither  ^neas  nor  St.  Paul."  his  journey  could  not  be  worthily 
undertaken,  or  end  in  wisdom.  But  Virgil,  after  sharply  rebu- 
king him  for  his  faintheartedness,  told  him,  that  the  spirit  of  her 
whom  he  loved,  Beatrice,  had  come  down  from  heaven,  on  pur- 
pose to  commend  her  lover  to  his  care  ;  upon  which  the  drooping 
courage  of  the  pilgrim  was  raised  to  an  undaunted  confidence  ; 
as  flowers  that  have  been  closed  and  bowed  down  by  frosty  nights, 
rise  all  up  on  their  stems  in  the  morning  sun.* 

"  Through  me  is  the  road  to  the  dolorous  city ; 
Through  me  is  the  road  to  the  everlasting  sorrows ; 
Through  me  is  the  road  to  the  lost  people. 
Justice  was  the  motive  of  my  exalted  maker  ; 

I  was  made  by  divine  power,  by  consummate  wisdom,  and  by  primal  love  ; 
Before  me  was  no  created  thing,  if  not  eternal ;  and  eternal  am  I  also. 
Abandon  hope,  all  ye  who  enter." 

Such  were  the  words  which  Dante  beheld  written  in  dark 
characters  over  a  portal.  "  Master,"  said  he  to  Virgil,  "  I  find 
their  meaning  hard." 

"  A  man,"  answered  Virgil,  "  must  conduct  himself  at  this 
door  like  one  prepared.  Hither  must  he  bring  no  mistrust. 
Hither  can  come  and  live  no  cowardice.  We  have  arrived  at 
the  place  I  told  thee  of.  Here  thou  art  to  behold  the  dolorous 
people  who  have  lost  all  intellectual  good.""}" 

*  "  Quale  i  fioretti  dal  notturno  gelo 

Chinati  e  chiusi,  poi  che  '1  sol  gl'  unbianca, 
Si  drizzan  tutti  aperti  in  loro  stelo." 
Like  as  tlie  flowers  that  with  the  frosty  night 
Are  bowed  and  closed,  soon  as  the  sun  returns, 
Rise  on  their  stems,  all  open  and  upright, 
t  This  loss  of  intellectual  good,  and  the  confession  of  the  poet  that  he  finds 
the  inscription  over  hell-portal  hard  to  understand  {il  senso  lor  m'  e  duro),  are 
among  the  passages  in  Dante  which  lead  some  critics  to  suppose  that  his  hell 
is  nothing  but  an  allegory,  intended  at  once  to  imply  his  own  disbelief  in  it  as 
understood  by  tlie  vulgar  part  of  mankind,  and  his  employment  of  it,  neverthe- 
less, as  a  salutary  check  both  to  the  foolish  and  the  reflecting; — to  the  foolish, 
as  an  alarm  ;  and  to  the  reflecting,  as  a  parable.     It  is  possible,  in  the  teeth 
of  many  appearances  to  the  contrary,  that  such  may  have  been  the  case ;  but 

5 


50  THE   lTALIAx\    PILGRIMS    PROGRESS. 


So  saying,  Virgil  placed  his  hand  on  Dante's,  looking  on  him 
with  a  cheerful  countenance  ;  and  the  Florentine  passed  with 
him  through  the  dreadful  gate. 

They  entered  upon  a  sightless  gulf,  in  which  was  a  black  air 
without  stars  ;  and  immediately  heard  a  hubbub  of  groans,  and 
wailings,  and  terrible  things  said  in  many  languages,  words  of 
wretchedness,  outcries  of  rage,  voices  loud  and  hoarse,  and 
sounds  of  the  smitings  of  hands  one  against  another.  Dante 
began  to  weep.  The  sound  was  as  if  the  sand  in  a  whirlwind 
were  turned  into  noises,  and  filled  the  blind  air  with  incessant 
conflict. 

Yet  these  were  not  the  souls  of  the  wicked.  They  were  those 
only  who  had  lived  without  praise  or  blame,  thinking  of  nothing 
but  themselves.  These  miserable  creatures  were  mixed  with  the 
angels  who  stood  neutral  in  the  war  with  Satan.  Heaven  would 
not  dull  its  brightness  with  those  angels,  nor  would  lower  hell  i 
receive  them,  lest  the  bad  ones  should  triumph  in  their  company. 

"  And  what  is  it,"  said  Dante,  "  which  makes  them  so  griev-  J 
ously  suffer?" 

"  Hopelessness  of  death,"  said  Virgil.  "  Their  blind  existence 
here,  and  immemorable  former  life,  make  them  so  wretched,  that 
they  envy  every  other  lot.  Mercy  and  justice  alike  disdain 
them.     Let  us  speak  of  them  no  more.     Look,  and  pass." 

The  companions  went  on  till  they  came  to  a  great  river  with  a 
multitude  waiting  on  the  banks.  A  hoary  old  man  appeared 
crossing  the  river  towards  them  in  a  boat ;  and  as  he  came,  he 
oaid,  "  Woe  to  the  wicked.  Never  expect  to  see  heaven.  I 
come  to  bear  you  across  to  the  dark  regions  of  everlasting  fire 
and  ice."  Then  looking  at  Dante,  he  said,  "  Get  thee  away 
from  the  dead,  thou  who  standest  there,  live  spirit." 

"Torment  thyself  not,  Charon,"  said  Virgil.  "He  has  a 
passport  beyond  thy  power  to  question." 

The  shaggy  cheeks  of  the  boatman  of  the  livid  lake,  who  had 

ill  the  doubt  that  it  affects  either  the  foolish  or  the  wise  to  any  good  purpose, 
and  in  the  certuinty  that  such  doctrines  do  a  world  of  mischief  to  tender  con- 
sciences and  the  cause  of  sound  piety,  such  monstrous  contradictions,  in  terms, 
of  every  sense  of  justice  and  charity  which  God  has  implanted  in  the  heart  of 
man,  are  not  to  be  passed  over  witiiout  iudigrnant  comment. 


sil 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  51 

wheels  of  fire  about  his  eyes,  fell  at  these  words  ;  and  he  was 
silent.  But  the  naked  multitude  of  souls  whom  he  had  spoken  to 
changed  colour,  and  gnashed  their  teeth,  blaspheming  God,  and 
their  parents,  and  the  human  species,  and  the  place,  and  the  hour, 
and  the  seed  of  the  sowing  of  their  birth  ;  and  all  the  while  they 
felt  themselves  driven  onwards,  by  a  fear  which  became  a  desire, 
towards  the  cruel  river-side,  which  awaits  every  one  destitute  of 
the  fear  of  God.  The  demon  Charon,  beckoning  to  them  with 
eyes  like  brasiers,  collected  them  as  they  came,  giving  blows  to 
those  that  lingered,  with  his  oar.  One  by  one  they  dropped  into 
the  boat  like  leaves  from  a  bough  in  autumn,  till  the  bough  is 
left  bare  ;  or  as  birds  drop  into  the  decoy  at  the  sound  of  the 
bird-call. 

There  was  then  an  earthquake,  so  terrible  that  the  recollection 
of  it  made  the  poet  burst  into  a  sweat  at  every  pore.  A  whirl- 
wind issued  from  the  lamenting  ground,  attended  by  vermilion 
flashes ;   and  he  lost  his  senses,  and  fell  like  a  man  stupified. 

A  crash  of  thunder  through  his  brain  woke  up  the  pilgrim  so 
hastily,  that  he  shook  himself  like  a  person  roused  by  force.  He 
found  that  he  was  on  the  brink  of  a  gulf,  from  which  ascended 
a  thunderous  sound  of  innumerable  groanings.  He  could  see 
nothincr  down  it.  It  was  too  dark  with  sootv  clouds.  Virgil 
himself  turned  pale,  but  said,  "  We  are  to  go  down  here.  I  will 
lead  the  way." 

"  O  master,"  said  Dante,  "  if  even  thou  fearest,  what  is  to  be- 
come of  myself?" 

"  It  is  pity,  not  fear,"  replied  Virgil,  "that  makes  me  change 
colour." 

With  these  words  his  guide  led  him  into  the  first  circle  of  hell, 
surrounding  the  abyss.  The  great  noise  gradually  ceased  to  be 
heard,  as  they  journeyed  inwards,  till  at  last  they  became  aware 
of  a  world  of  sighs,  which  produced  a  trembling  in  the  air. 
They  were  breathed  by  the  souls  of  such  as  had  died  without 
baptism,  men,  women,  and  infants ;  no  matter  how  good  ;  no  mat- 
ter if  they  worshipped  God  before  the  coming  of  Christ,  for  they 
worshipped  him  not  "  properly."  Virgil  himself  was  one  of 
them.  They  were  all  lost  for  no  other  reason  ;  and  their  "  only 
suffering"  consisted  in  "  hopeless  desire  !" 


52  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


Dante  was  struck  with  great  sorrow  when  he  heard  this,  know- 
infT  how  many  good  men  must  be  in  that  place.  He  inquired  if 
no  one  had  ever  been  taken  out  of  it  into  heaven.  Virgil  told  him 
there  had,  and  he  named  them  ;  to  wit,  Adam,  Abel,  Noah, 
Moses,  King  David,  obedient  Abraham  the  patriarch,  and  Isaac, 
and  Jacob,  with  their  children,  and  Rachel,  for  whom  Jacob  did 
so  much, — and  "  many  more  ;"  adding,  however,  that  there  was 
no  instance  of  salvation  before  theirs. 

Journeying  on  through  spirits  as  thick  as  leaves,  Dante  per- 
ceived a  lustre  at  a  little  distance,  and  observing  shapes  in  it  evi- 
dently of  great  dignity,  inquired  who  they  were  that  thus  lived 
apart  from  the  rest.  Virgil  said  that  heaven  thus  favoured  them 
by  reason  of  their  renown  on  earth.  A  voice  was  then  heard 
exclaiming,  "  Honour  and  glory  to  the  lofty  poet !  Lo,  his  shade 
returns."  Dante  then  saw  four  other  noble  figures  coming  to- 
wards them,  of  aspect  neither  sad  nor  cheerful. 

"  Observe  him  with  the  sword  in  his  hand,"  said  Virgil,  as 
they  were  advancing.  "  That  is  Homer,  the  poets'  sovereign. 
Next  to  him  comes  Horace  the  satirist ;  then  Ovid  •  and  the  last 
is  Lucan." 

"  And  thus  I  beheld,"  says  Dante,  "  the  bright  school  of  the 
loftiest  of  poets,  who  flies  above  the  rest  like  an  eagle." 

For  a  while  the  illustrious  spirits  talked  together,  and  then 
turned  to  the  Florentine  with  a  benign  salutation,  at  which  his 
master  smiled  :  and  "  further  honour  they  did  me,"  adds  the 
father  of  Italian  poetry,  "  for  they  admitted  me  of  their  tribe  ;  so 
that  to  a  band  of  that  high  account  I  added  a  sixth."* 

The  spirits  returned  towards  the  bright  light  in  which  they 
lived,  talking  with  Dante  by  the  way,  and  brought  him  to  a  mag- 
nificent castle,  girt  with  seven  lofty  walls,  and  further  defended 
with  a  river,  which  they  all  passed  as  if  it  had  been  dry  ground. 
Seven  gates  conducted  them  into  a  meadow  of  fresh  green,  the 
resort  of  a  race  whose  eyes  moved  with  a  deliberate  soberness,  and 
whose  whole  aspects  were  of  great  authority,  their  voices  sweet, 


*  It  is  seldom  tliut  a  Iwast  of  this  kind — not,  it  must  be  owned,  bashfnl — has 
been  allowed  by  poBterity  to  be  just ;  nay,  in  four  out  of  the  five  instances,  be- 
low its  claims. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  53 


and  their  speech  seldom.*  Dante  was  taken  apart  to  an  eleva- 
tion in  the  ground,  so  that  he  could  behold  them  all  distinctly  ; 
and  there,  on  the  "  enamelled  green, "f  were  pointed  out  to  him 
the  great  spirits,  by  the  sight  of  whom  he  felt  exalted  in  his  own 
esteem.  He  saw  Electra  with  many  companions,  among  whom 
were  Hector  and  ^neas,  and  Caesar  in  armour  with  his  hawk's 
eyes ;  and  on  another  side  he  beheld  old  King  Latinus  with  his 
daughter  Lavinia,  and  the  Brutus  that  expelled  Tarquin,  and  Lu- 
cretia,  and  Julia,  and  Cato's  wife  Marcia,  and  the  mother  of  the 
Gracchi,  and,  apart  by  himself,  the  Sultan  Saladin.  He  then 
raised  his  eyes  a  little,  and  beheld  the  "  master  of  those  who 
know":}:  (Aristotle),  sitting  amidst  the  family  of  philosophers, 
and  honoured  by  them  all.  Socrates  and  Plato  were  at  his  side. 
Among  the  rest  was  Democritus,  who  made  the  world  a  chance, 
and  Diogenes,  and  Heraclitus,  &c.  and  Dioscorides,  the  good 
gatherer  of  simples.  Orpheus  also  he  saw,  and  Cicero,  and  the 
moral  Seneca,  and  Euclid,  and  Hippocrates,  and  Avicen,  and 
Averroes,  who  wrote  the  great  commentary,  and  others  too  nume- 
rous to  mention.  The  company  of  six  became  diminished  to 
two,  and  Virgil  took  him  forth  on  a  far  different  road,  leaving  that 
serene  air  for  a  stormy  one ;  and  so  they  descended  again  into 
darkness. 

It  was  the  second  circle  into  which  they  now  came — a  sphere 
narrower  than  the  first,  and  by  so  much  more  the  wretcheder. 
Minos  sat  at  the  entrance,  gnarling — he  that  gives  sentence  on 
every  one  that  comes,  and  intimates  the  circle  into  which  each  is 
to  be  plunged  by  the  number  of  folds  into  which  he  casts  his  tail 
round  about  him.  Minos  admonished  Dante  to  beware  how  he 
entered  unbidden,  and  warned  him  against  his  conductor ;  but 
Virgil  sharply  rebuked  the  judge,  and  bade  him  not  set  his  will 
against  the  will  that  was  power. 


*  "  Genti  v'  eran,  con  occhi  tardi  e  gravi, 
Di  j^rande  autoriti  ne'  lor  sembianti : 
Parlavan  rado,  con  voci  soavi." 

t  "  Sopra  '1  verde  sinalto."     Mr.  Gary  has  noticed  the  appearance,  for  the 
first  time,  of  this  beautiful  but  now  commonplace  image. 

t  "  II  maestro  di  color  che  sanno."  • 


54  THE  ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


The  pilgrims  then  descended  through  hell-mouth,  till  they  came 
to  a  place  dark  as  pitch,  that  bellowed  with  furious  cross-wmds, 
like  a  sea  in  a  tempest.  It  was  the  first  place  of  torment,  and 
the  habitation  of  carnal  sinners.  The  winds,  full  of  stifled 
voices,  buffeted  the  souls  for  ever,  whirling  them  away  to  and 
fro,  and  dashing  them  against  one  another.  Whenever  it  seized 
them  for  that  purpose,  the  wailing  and  the  shrieking  was  loudest, 
crying  out  against  the  Divine  Power.  Sometimes  a  whole  mul- 
titude came  driven  in  a  body  like  starlings  before  the  wind,  now 
hither  and  thither,  now  up,  now  down  ;  sometimes  they  went  in  a 
line  like  cranes,  when  a  company  of  those  birds  is  beheld  sailing 
along  in  the  air,  uttering  its  dolorous  clangs. 

Dante,  seeing  a  group  of  them  advancing,  inquired  of  Virgil 
who  they  were.  "  Who  are  these,"  said  he,  "  coming  hither, 
scourged  in  the  blackest  part  of  the  hurricane  ?" 

"  She  at  the  head  of  them,"  said  Virgil,  "  was  empress  over 
many  nations.  So  foul  grew  her  heart  with  lust,  that  she  or- 
dained license  to  be  law,  to  the  end  that  herself  might  be  held 
blameless.  She  is  Semiramis,  of  whom  it  is  said  that  she  gave 
suck  to  Ninus,  and  espoused  him.  Leading  the  multitude  next 
to  her  is  Dido,  she  that  slew  herself  for  love,  and  broke  faith  to 
the  ashes  of  Sichseus  ;  and  she  that  follows  with  the  next  is  the 
luxurious  woman,  Cleopatra." 

Dante  then  saw  Helen,  who  produced  such  a  world  of  misery ; 
and  the  great  Achilles,  who  fought  for  love  till  it  slew  him ;  and 
Paris ;  and  Tristan ;  and  a  thousand  more  whom  his  guide 
pointed  at,  naming  their  names,  every  one  of  whom  was  lost 
through  love. 

The  poet  stood  for  a  while  speechless  for  pity,  and  like  one 
bereft  of  his  wits.  He  then  besought  leave  to  speak  to  a  particu- 
lar couple  who  went  side  by  side,  and  who  appeared  to  be  borne 
before  the  wind  with  speed  lighter  than  the  rest.  His  conduc- 
tor  bade  him  wait  till  they  came  nigher,  and  then  to  entreat  them 
gently  by  the  love  which  bore  them  in  that  manner,  and  they 
would  stop  and  speak  with  him.  Dante  waited  his  time,  and  then 
lifted  up  his  voice  between  the  gusts  of  wind,  and  adjured  the 
two  "  weary  souls"  to   halt  and  have   speech  with   him,  if  none 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  53 

forbade  their  doing  so  ;  upon  which  they  came  to  him,  like  doves 
to  the  nest.* 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  tempest,  as  if  on  purpose  to  let  thern 
speak  ;  and  the  female  addressed  Dante,  saying,  that  as  he  shew- 
ed,such  pity  for  their  state,  they  would  have  prayed  heaven  to 
give  peace  and  repose  to  his  life,  had  they  possessed  the  friend- 
ship of  heaven. f 

"  Love,"  she  said,  "  which  is  soon  kindled  in  a  gentle  heart, 
seized  this  my  companion  for  the  fair  body  I  once  inhabited — how 
deprived  of  it,  my  spirit  is  bowed  to  recollect.  Love,  which 
compels  the  beloved  person  upon  thoughts  of  love,  seized  me  in 
turn  with  a  delight  in  his  passion  so  strong,  that,  as  thou  seest, 
even  here  it  forsakes  me  not.  Love  brought  us  both  to  one  end. 
The  punishment  of  Cain  awaits  him  that  slew  us." 

The  poet  was  struck  dumb  by  this  story.  He  hung  down  his 
head,  and  stood  looking  on  the  ground  so  long,  that  his  guide 

*  This  is  the  famous  episode  of  Paulo  and  Francesca.  She  was  daughtei 
to  Count  Guido  da  Polenta,  lord  of  Ravenna,  and  wife  to  Giovanni  Malatesta 
one  of  the  sons  of  the  lord  of  Rimini.  Paulo  was  her  brother-in-law.  They 
were  surprised  together  by  the  husband,  and  slain  on  the  spot.  Particulars  of 
their  history  will  be  found  in  the  Appendix,  together  with  the  whole  original 
passage. 

"  Quali  colombe,  dal  disio  chiamate, 
Con  r  ali  aperte  e  femie,  al  dolce  nido 
Volan  per  1'  aer  dal  voler  portate : 

Cotali  uscir  de  la  schiera  ov'  6  Dido,  "^ 

A  noi  venendo  per  1'  aer  maligno, 
Si  forte  fu  1'  afFettuoso  grido." 

As  doves,  drawn  home  from  where  they  circled  still, 
Set  firm  their  open  wings,  and  through  the  air 
Come  sweeping,  wafted  by  their  pure  good-will : 

So  broke  from  Dido's  flock  that  gentle  pair, 
Cleaving,  to  where  we  stood,  the  air  malign. 
Such  strength  to  bring  them  had  a  loving  prayer. 

t  Francesca  is  to  be  conceived  telling  her  story  in  anxious  intermitting  sen- 
tences— now  all  tenderness  for  her  lover,  now  angry  at  their  slayer ;  watching 
the  poet's  face,  to  see  what  he  thinks,  and  at  times  averting  her  own.     I  take 
this  excellent  direction  from  Ugo  Foscolo. 


56  THE  ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


asked  him  what  was  in  his  mind.  *'  Alas  !"  answered  he,  "  such 
then  was  this  love,  so  full  of  sweet  thoughts  ;  and  such  the  pass 
to  which  it  brought  them  !  Oh,  Francesca  !"  he  cried,  turnino- 
again  to  the  sad  couple,  "  thy  sufferings  make  me  weep.  But 
tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  what  was  it  that  first  made  thee  know,  for  a 
certainty,  that  his  love  was  returned  ? — that  thou  couldst  refuse 
him  thine  no  longer  ?" 

"  There  is  not  a  greater  sorrow,"'  answered  she,  "  than  calling 
to  mind  happy  moments  in  the  midst  of  wretchedness.*  But  since 
thy  desire  is  so  great  to  know  our  story  to  the  root,  hear  me 
tell  it  as  well  as  I  may  for  tears.  It  chanced,  one  day,  that  we 
sat  reading  the  tale  of  Sir  Launcelot,  how  love  took  him  in  thrall. 
We  were  alone,  and  had  no  suspicion.  Often,  as  we  read,  our 
eyes  became  suspended,"!-  and  we  changed  colour  ;  but  one  pas- 
sage alone  it  was  that  overcame  us.  When  we  read  how  Gene- 
vra  smiled,  and  how  the  lover,  out  of  the  depth  of  his  love,  could 
not  help  kissing  that  smile,  he  that  is  never  more  to  be  parted 
from  me  kissed  me  himself  on  the  mouth,  all  in  a  tremble. 
Never  had  we  go-between  but  that  book.  The  writer  was  the 
betrayer.     That  day  we  read  no  more." 

While  these  words  were  being  uttered  by  one  of  the  spirits, 
the  other  wailed  so  bitterly,  that  the  poet  thought  he  should  have 

*  "  Nessim  inaggior  dolore, 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Ne  la  miseria." 

t  "  Per  piu  fiate  gli  occhi  ci  sospinse 
Quella  lettura." 

"  To  look  at  one  another,"  says  Boccaccio  ;  and  his  interpretation  has  been  fol- 
lowed  by  Gary  and  Foscolo  ;  but,  with  deference  to  such  authorities,  I  beg 
leave  to  think  that  the  poet  meant  no  more  than  he  says,  namely,  that  their 
eyes  were  simply  -  8uspended"-hung,  as  it  were,  over  the  book,  without  be- 
mjr  able  to  read  on  ;  which  is  what  I  intended  to  express  (if  I  may  allude  to  a 
production  of  which  both  those  critics  were  pleased  to  speak  well),  when,  in  my 
youthful  attempt  to  enlarge  this  story,  I  wrote 

«'  And  o'er  the  book  they  hung,  and  nothing  said, 
And  every  lingering  page  grew  longer  as  they  read." 

Story  oj  Rimini. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HELL.  57 


lied  for  pity.  His  senses  forsook  him,  and  he  fell  flat  on  the 
fround,  as  a  dead  body  falls.* 

On  regaining  his  senses,  the  poet  found  himself  in  the  third 
lircle  of  hell,  a  place  of  everlasting  wet,  darkness,  and  cold,  one 
leavy  slush  of  hail  and  mud,  emitting  a  squalid  smell.  The 
riple-headed  dog  Cerberus,  with  red  eyes  and  greasy  black 
eard,  large  belly,  and  hands  with  claws,  barked  above  the  heads 
f  the  wretches  who  floundered  in  the  mud,  tearing,  skinninof, 
nd  dismembering  them,  as  they  turned  their  sore  and  soddened 
odies  from  side  to  side.  When  he  saw  the  two  living  men,  he 
hewed  his  fangs,  and  shook  in  every  limb  for  desire  of  their 
esh.  Virgil  threw  lumps  of  dirt  into  his  mouth,  and  so  they 
assed  him. 

It  was  the  place  of  Gluttons.  The  travellers  passed  over  them, 
s  if  they  had  been  ground  to  walk  upon.  But  one  of  them  sat 
p,  and  addressed  the  Florentine  as  his  acquaintance.  Dante  did 
ot  known  him,  for  the  agony  in  his  countenance.  He  was  a  man 
icknamcd  Hog  (Ciacco),  and  by  no  other  name  does  the  poet,  or 
ny  one  else,  mention  him.  His  countryman  addressed  him  by  it, 
lough  declaring  at  the  same  time  that  he  wept  to  see  him.  Hog 
rophesied  evil  to  his  discordant  native  city,  adding  that  there 

*  "  Mentre  che  1'  uno  spirto  questo  disse, 
L'  altro  piangeva  si,  che  di  pietade 
I'  venni  men  cosi  com'  io  morisse, 
E  caddi  come  corpo  morto  cade." 

'his  last  line  has  been  greatly  admired  for  the  corresponding  deadness  of  its 
jcpression. 

While  thus  one  spoke,  the  otlier  spirit  mourn'd 
With  wail  so  woful,  that  at  his  remorse 
I  felt  as  though  I  should  have  died.     I  tnrn'd 
Stone-stifF;  and  to  the  ground,  fell  like  a  corse. 

'he  poet  fell  thus  on  the  ground  (some  of  the  commentators  think)  because 
e  had  sinned  in  the  same  way  ;  and  if  Foscolo's  opinion  could  be  established 
-that  tlie  incident  of  the  book  is  invention — their  conclusion  would  receive 
urious  collateral  evidence,  the  circumstance  of  tlie  perusal  of  the  romance  in 
ompany  with  a  lady  being  likely  enough  to  have  occurred  to  Dante.  But  the 
ime  probability  applies  in  the  case  of  the  lovers.  The  reading  of  such  books 
^as  equally  the  taste  of  their  own  times  :  and  nothing  is  more  likely  than  the 
olume's  having  been  found  in  the  room  where  they  perished. 


58  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


were  but  two  just  men  in  it — all  the  rest  being  given  up  to  ava- 
rice, envy,  and  pride.  Dante  inquired  by  name  respecting  the 
fate  of  five  other  Florentines,  who  had  done  good,  and  was  in- 
formed that  they  were  all,  for  various  offences,  in  lower  gulfs  of 
hell.  Hog  then  begged  that  he  would  mention  having  seen  him 
when  he  returned  to  the  sweet  world  ;  and  so,  looking  at  him  a 
little,  bent  his  head,  and  disappeared  among  his  blinded  compan- 
ions. 

"  Satan  !  hoa,  Satan  !"  roared  the  demon  Plutus,  as  the  poets 
were  descending  into  the  fourth  circle. 

"  Peace  !"  cried  Virgil,  "  with  thy  swollen  lip,  thou  accursed 
wolf     No  one  can  hinder  his  coming  down.     God  wills  it."* 

Flat  fell  Plutus,  collapsed,  like  the  sails  of  a  vessel  when  the 
mast  is  split.  \ 

This  circle  was  the  most  populous  one  they  had  yet  come  to. 
The  sufferers,  gifted  with  supernatural  might,  kept  eternally  roll- 
ing round  it,  one  against  another,  with  terrific  violence,  and  so 
dashing  apart,  and  returning.  "  Why  grasp  ?"  cried  the  one — 
"  Why  throw  away  ?"  cried  the  other ;  and  thus  exclaiming, 
they  dash  furiously  together.  ' 

They  were  the  Avaricious  and  the  Prodigal.  Multitudes  of 
them  were  churchmen,  including  cardinals  and  popes.  Not  all 
the  gold  bcneatli  the  moon  could  have  purchased  them  a  mo- 
ment's rest.  Dante  asked  if  none  of  them  were  to  be  recognised 
by  their  countenances.  Virgil  said,  "No;"  for  the  stupid  and 
sullied  lives  which  they  led  on  earth  swept  their  faces  away  from 
all  distinction  for  ever. 

In  discoursing  of  fortune,  they  descend  by  the  side  of  a  tor- 
rent, black  as  ink,  into  the  fifth  circle,  or  place  of  torment  for  the 
Angry,  the  Sullen,  and  the  Proud.  Here  they  first  beheld  a 
filthy  marsh,  full  of  dirty  naked  bodies,  that  in  everlasting  rage 

*  Plutus's  exclamation  about  Satan  is  a  great  choke-pear  to  the  commenta- 
tors.    Tlie  line  in  the  original  is 

"  Pape  Satan,  pape  Satan  aleppe." 
The  words,  as  thus  written,  are  not   Italian.     It  is  not  the  business  of  this  ab- 
stract to  discuss  such  points  ;  and  therefore  I  content  myself  with  believing 
that  the  context  implies  a  call  of  alarm  on  the  Prince  of  Hell  at  the  sight  of 
the  living  creature  and  his  guide. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HELL.  59 

tore  one  another  to  pieces.  In  a  quieter  division  of  the  pool  were 
seen  nothing  but  bubbles,  carried  by  the  ascent,  from  its  slimy 
bottom,  of  the  stifled  words  of  the  sullen.  They  were  always 
saying,  "  We  were  sad  and  dark  within  us  in  the  midst  of  the 
sweet  sunshine,  and  now  we  live  sadly  in  the  dark  bogs."  The 
poets  walked  on  till  they  came  to  the  foot  of  a  tower,  which  hung 
out  two  blazing  signals  to  another  just  discernible  in  the  distance. 
A  boat  came  rapidly  towards  them,  ferried  by  the  wrathful 
Phlegyas  ;*  who  cried  out,  "  Aha,  felon  !  and  so  thou  hast  come 
at  last  !" 

''  Thou  errest,"  said  Virgil.  "  We  come  for  no  longer  time 
than  it  will  take  thee  to  ferry  us  across  thy  pool." 

Phlegyas  looked  like  one  defrauded  of  his  right ;  but  proceeded 
to  convey  them.  During  their  course  a  spirit  rose  out  of  the 
mire,  looking  Dante  in  the  face,  and  said,  "  Who  art  thou,  that 
comest  before  thy  time  ?" 

"  Who  art  thou  ?"  said  Dante. 

"  Thou  seest  who  I  am,"  answered  the  other ;  "  one  among 
the  mourners." 

"  Then  mourn  still,  and  howl,  accursed  spirit,"  returned  the 
Florentine.     "  I  know  thee, — all  over  filth  as  thou  art." 

The  wretch  in  fury  laid  hold  of  the  boat,  but  Virgil  thrust 
him  back,  exclaiming,  "  Down  with  thee  !  down  among  the  other 
dogs !" 

Then  turning  to  Dante,  he  embraced  and  kissed  him,  saying, 
*'  O  soul,  that  knows  how  to  disdain,  blessed  be  she  that  bore 
thee  !  Arrogant,  truly,  upon  earth  was  this  sinner,  nor  is  his 
memory  graced  by  a  single  virtue.  Hence  the  furiousness  of 
his  spirit  now.  How  many  kings  are  there  at  this  moment  lord- 
ing it  as  gods,  who  shall  wallow  here,  as  he  does,  like  swine  in 
the  mud,  and  be  thought  no  better  of  by  the  world  !" 

*  Phlegyas,  a  son  of  Mars,  was  cast  into  hell  by  Apollo  for  setting  the  god's 
temple  on  fire  in  resentznent  for  the  violation  of  his  daughter  Coronis.  The 
actions  of  gods  were  not  to  be  questioned,  in  Dante's  opinion,  even  though  the 
gods  turned  otit  to  be  false.  Jugghanaut  is  as  good  as  any,  while  he  lasts.  It 
is  an  ethico-theological  puzzle,  involving  very  nice  questions ;  but  at  any  rate, 
had  our  poet  been  a  Brahmin  of  Benares,  we  know  how  he  would  have  \vt\X* 
ten  about  it  in  Sanscrit. 


60  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


"  I  should  like  to  see  him  smothering  in  it,"  said  Dante,  "  be- 
fore we  go." 

"  A  right  wish,"  said  Virgil,  "  and  thou  shalt,  to  thy  heart's 

content." 

On  a  sudden  the  wretch's  muddy  companions  seized  and 
drenched  him  so  horribly  that  (exclaims  Dante)  "  I  laud  and 
thank  God  for  it  now  at  this  moment." 

"  Have  at  him  !"  cried  they  ;  "  have  at  Filippo  Argenti  ;"  and 
the  wild  fool  of  a  Florentine  dashed  his  teeth  for  rage  into  his 
own  flesh.* 

The  poet's  attention  was  now  drawn  off  by  a  noise  of  lamenta- 
tion, and  he  perceived  that  he  was  approaching  the  city  of  Dis.f 
The  turrets  glowed  vermilion  with  the  fire  within  it,  the  walls 
appeared  to  be  of  iron,  and  moats  were  round  about  them.  The 
boat  circuited  the  walls  till  the  travellers  came  to  a  gate,  which 
Phlegyas,  with  a  loud  voice,  told  them  to  quit  the  boat  and  enter. 
But  a  thousand  fallen  angels  crowded  over  the  top  of  the  gate, 
refusing  to  open  it,  and  making  furious  gestures.  At  length 
they  agreed  to  let  Virgil  speak  with  them  inside  ;  and  he  left 
Dante  for  a  while,  standing  in  terror  without.     The  parley  was 

*  Filippo  Argenti  (Philip  Silver, — so  called  from  his  shoeing  his  horse  with 
the  precious  metal)  was  a  Florentine  remarkable  for  bodily  strength  and  ex- 
treme irascibility.  What  a  barbarous  strength  and  confusion  of  ideas  is  there 
in  this  whole  passage  about  him  !  Arrogance  punished  by  arrogance,  a 
Christian  mother  blessed  for  the  unchristian  disdainfulness  of  her  son,  revenge 
boasted  of  and  enjoyed,  passion  arguing  in  a  circle  !  Filippo  himself  might 
have  written  it.     Dante  says, 

"  Con  piangere  e  con  lutto 
Spirito  maladetto,  ti  rimani. — 

Via  cost&,  con  gli  altri  cani,"  &c. 

Then  Virgil,  kissing  and  embracing  him, 

"  Alma  sdegnosa 
Benedetta  colei  che  'n  te  s'  incinse,"  &c. 

And  Dante  again, 

"  Maestro,  molto  sarei  vago 
Di  vederlo  attirfFare  in  questa  broda,"  &c. 

t  Dis,  one  of  the  Pagan  names  of  Pluto,  here  used  for  Satan.  Within  the 
walls  of  the  city  of  Dis  commence  the  punishments  by  fire. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  61 


in  vain.  They  would  not  let  them  pass.  Virgil,  however,  bade 
his  companion  be  of  good  cheer,  and  then  stood  listening  and 
talking  to  himself;  disclosing  by  his  words  his  expectation  of 
some  extraordinary  assistance,  and  at  the  same  time  his  anxiety 
for  its  arrival.  On  a  sudden,  three  raging  figures  arose  over  the 
gate,  coloured  with  gore.  Green  hydras  twisted  about  them  ; 
and  their  fierce  temples  had  snakes  instead  of  hair. 

"  Look,"  said  Virgil.  "  The  P'uries  !  The  one  on  the  left  is 
MegGera  ;  Alecto  is  she  that  is  wailing  on  the  right ;  and  in  the 
middle  is  Tisiphone."  Virgil  then  hushed.  The  Furies  stood 
clawing  their  breasts,  smiting  their  hands  together,  and  raising 
such  hideous  cries,  that  Dante  clung  to  his  friend. 

"  Bring  the  Gorgon's  head  !"  cried  the  Furies,  looking  down  ; 
"  turn  him  to  adamant !" 

"  Turn  round,"  said  Virgil,  "  and  hide  thy  face  ;  for  if  thou 
beholdest  the  Gorgon,  never  again  wilt  thou  see  the  light  of  day." 
And  with  these  words  he  seized  Dante  and  turned  him  round  him- 
self, clapping  his  hands  over  his  companion's  eyes. 

And  now  was  heard  coming  over  the  water  a  terrible  crashing 
noise,  that  made  the  banks  on  either  side  of  it  tremble.  It  was 
like  a  hurricane  which  comes  roaring  through  the-vain  shelter  of 
the  woods,  splitting  and  hurling  away  the  boughs,  sweeping  along 
proudly  in  a  huge  cloud  of  dust,  and  making  herds  and  herdsmen 
fly  before  it.  "  Now  stretch  your  eyesight  across  the  water," 
said  Virgil,  letting  loose  his  hands  ; — '•  there,  where  the  smoke 
of  the  foam  is  thickest."  Dante  looked  ;  and  saw  a  thousand  of 
the  rebel  angels,  like  frogs  before  a  serpent,  swept  away  into  a 
heap  before  the  coming  of  a  single  spirit,  who  flew  over  the  tops 
cf  the  billows  with  unwet  feet.  The  spirit  frequently  pushed 
the  gross  air  from  before  his  face,  as  if  tired  of  the  base  obstacle ; 
^^uid  as  he  came  nearer,  Dante,  who  saw  it  was  a  messenger  from 
leaven,  looked  anxiously  at  Virgil.  Virgil  motioned  him  to  be 
silent  and  bow  down. 

The  angel,  with  a  face  full  of  scorn,  as  soon  as  he  arrived  at 
the  gate,  touched  it  with  a  wand  that  he  had  in  his  hand,  and  it 
flew  open. 

"  Outcasts  of  heaven,"  said  he ;  "  despicable  race  !  whence 
this  fantastical  arrogance  ?     Do  ye  forget  that  your  torments  are 


62  THE  ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


laid  on  thicker  every  time  ye  kick  against  the  Fates  ?  Do  ye 
fortret  how  your  Cerberus  was  bound  and  chained  till  he  lost  the 
hair  oil  his  neck  like  a  common  dog  ?" 

So  saying  he  turned  swiftly  and  departed  the  way  he  came, 
not  addressing  a  word  to  the  travellers.  His  countenance  had 
suddenly  a  look  of  some  other  business,  totally  different  from  the 
one  he  had  terminated. 

The  companions  passed  in,  and  beheld  a  place  full  of  tombs 
red-hot.  It  was  the  region  of  Arch-heretics  and  their  followers. 
Dante  and  his  guide  passed  round  betwixt  the  walls  and  the  sep- 
ulchres as  in  a  churchyard,  and  came  to  the  quarter  which  held 
Epicurus  and  his  sect,  who  denied  the  existence  of  spirit  apart  ^ 
from  matter.  The  lids  of  the  tombs  remaining  unclosed  till  the 
day  of  judgment,  the  soul  of  a  noble  Florentine,  Farinata  degli 
Uberti,  hearing  Dante  speak,  addressed  him  as  a  countryman, 
asking  him  to  stop.*  Dante,  alarmed,  beheld  him  rise  half  out 
of  his  sepulchre,  looking  as  lofty  as  if  he  scorned  hell  itself. 
Finding  who  Dante  was,  he  boasted  of  having  three  times  ex- 
pelled the  Guelphs.  "  Perhaps  so,"  said  the  poet ;  "  but  they 
came  back  again  each  time  ;  an  art  which  their  enemies  have 
not  yet  acquired." 

A  visage  then  appeared  from  out  another  tomb,  looking  ea- 
gerly, as  if  it  expected  to  see  some  one  else.  Being  disappointed, 
the  tears  came  into  its  eyes,  and  the  sufferer  said,  "  If  it  is  thy 
genius  that  conducts  thee  hither,  where  is  my  son,  and  why  is  he 
not  with  thee  ?" 

"  It  is  not  my  genius  that  conducts  me,"  said  Dante,  "  but  that 
of  one,  whom  perhaps  thy  son  held  in  contempt." 

"  How  say  est  thou  ?"  cried  the  shade  ; — "  held  in  contempt  ? 
He  is  dead  then  ?  He  beholds  no  longer  the  sweet  light  ?"  And 
with  these  words  he  dropped  into  his  tomb,  and  was  seen  no  more. 
It  was  Cavalcante  Cavalcanti,  the  father  of  the  poet's  friend.  Guide. f 

*  Farinata  was  a  Ghibelline  leader  before  the  time  of  Dante,  and  had  van- 
quished the  poet's  connexions  at  the  battle  of  Montaperto. 

t  What  would  Guido  have  said  to  this?  More,  I  suspect,  than  Dante  would 
have  liked  to  hear,  or  known  how  to  answer.  But  he  died  before  the  verses 
transpired ;  probably  before  they  were  written  ;  for  Dante,  in  the  chronologfy 
of  his  poem,  assumes  what  times  and  seasons  he  finds  most  convenient. 


THE   JOURNEY    TUROUGill   HELL.  63 

The  shade  of  Farinata,  who  had  meantime  been  lookinir  on, 
now  replied  to  the  taunt  of  Dante,  prophesying  that  he  should 
soon  have  good  reason  to  know  that  the  art  he  spoke  of  had  been 
acquired  ;  upon  which  Dante,  speaking  with  more  considerate- 
ness  to  the  lofty  sufferer,  requested  to  know  how  the  gift  of  pro- 
phecy could  belong  to  spirits  who  were  ignorant  of  the  time  pres- 
ent. Farinata  answered  that  so  it  was  ;  just  as  there  was  a  kind 
of  eyesight  which  could  discern  things  at  a  distance  though  not 
at  hand.  Dante  then  expressed  his  remorse  at  not  having  in- 
ibrmed  Cavalcante  that  his  son  was  alive.  He  said  it  was  owing 
to  his  being  overwhelmed  with  thought  on  the  subject  he  had  just 
mentioned,  and  entreated  Farinata  to  tell  him  so. 

Quitting  this  part  of  the  cemetery,  Virgil  led  him  through  the 
midst  of  it  towards  a  descent  into  a  valley,  from  which  there  as- 
cended a  loathsome  odour.  They  stood  behind  one  of  the  tombs 
for  a  while,  to  accustom  themselves  to  the  breath  of  it ;  and  then 
began  to  descend  a  wild  fissure  in  a  rock,  near  the  mouth  of 
which  lay  the  infamy  of  Crete,  the  Minotaur.  The  monster  be- 
holding them  gnawed  himself  for  rage  ;  and  on  their  persisting 
to  advance,  began  plunging  like  a  bull  when  he  is  stricken  by  the 
knife  of  the  butcher.  They  succeeded,  however,  in  entering  the 
fissure  before  he  recovered  sufficiently  from  his  madness  to  run 
at  them  ;  and  at  the  foot  of  the  descent,  came  to  a  river  of  boil- 
ing blood,  on  the  strand  of  which  ran  thousands  of  Centaurs  armed 
with  bows  and  arrows.  In  the  blood,  more  or  less  deep  accord- 
ing to  the  amount  of  the  crime,  and  shrieking  as  they  boiled, 
were  the  souls  of  the  Inflicters  of  Violence ;  and  if  any  of  them 
emerged  from  it  higher  than  he  had  a  right  to  do,  the  Centaurs 
drove  him  down  with  their  arrows.  Nessus,  the  one  that  be- 
queathed Hercules  the  poisoned  garment,  came  galloping  towards 
the  pilgrims,  bending  his  bow,  and  calling  out  from  a  distance  to 
know  who  they  were  ;  but  Virgil,  disdaining  his  hasty  charac- 
ter, would  explain  himself  only  to  Chiron,  the  Centaur  who  in- 
structed Achilles.  Chiron,  in  consequence,  bade  Nessus  accom- 
pany them  along  the  river ;  and  there  they  saw  tyrants  immersed 
up  to  the  eyebrows ; — Alexander  the  Great  among  them,  Diony- 
sius  of  Syracuse,  and  Ezzelino  the  Paduan.  There  was  one  of 
the   Pazzi  of  Florence,  and   Rinieri  of  Corneto  (infestors  of  the 


64  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


public  ways),  now  shedding  bloody  tears,  and  Attila  the  Scourge, 
and  Pyrrhus  king  of  Epirus.  Further  on,  among  those  immersed 
up  to  the  throat,  was  Guy  de  Montfort,  the  Englishman,  who  slew 
his  father's  slayer,  Prince  Henry,  during  divine  service,  in  the 
bosom  of  God ;  and  then  by  degrees  the  river  became  shallower 
and  siiallower  till  it  covered  only  the  feet ;  and  here  the  Centaur 
quitted  the  pilgrims,  and  they  crossed  over  into  a  forest. 

The  forest  was  a  trackless  and  dreadful  forest — the  leaves  not 
green,  but  black — the  boughs  not  freely  growing,  but  knotted  and 
twisted — the  fruit  no  fruit,  but  thorny  poison.  The  Harpies  wail- 
ed among  the  trees,  occasionally  shewing  their  human  faces ;  and 
on  every  side  of  him  Dante  heard  lamenting  human  voices,  but 
could  see  no  one  from  whom  they  came.  "  Pluck  one  of  the 
boughs,"  said  Virgil.  Dante  did  so ;  and  blood  and  a  cry  fol- 
lowed it. 

"  Why  pluckest  thou  me  ?"  said  the  trunk.  "  Men  have  we 
been,  like  thyself;  but  thou  couldst  not  use  us  worse,  had  we  been 
serpents."  The  blood  and  words  came  out  together,  as  a  green 
bough  hisses  and  spits  in  the  fire. 

The  voice  was  that  of  Piero  delle  Vigne,  the  good  chancellor 
of  the  Emperor  Frederick  the  Second.  Just  though  he  had  been 
to  others,  he  was  thus  tormented  for  having  been  unjust  to  him- 
self; for,  envy  having  wronged  him  to  his  sovereign,  who  sen- 
tenced him  to  lose  his  eyes,  he  dashed  his  brains  out  against  a 
wall.  Piero  entreated  Dante  to  vindicate  his  memory.  The 
poet  could  not  speak  for  pity  ;  so  Virgil  made  the  promise  for 
him,  inquiring  at  the  same  time  in  what  manner  it  was  that  Sui- 
cides became  thus  identified  with  trees,  and  how  their  souls  were 
to  rejoin  their  bodies  at  the  day  of  judgment.  Piero  said,  that 
the  moment  the  fierce  self-murderer's  spirit  tore  itself  from  the 
body,  and  passed  before  Charon,  it  fell,  like  a  grain  of  corn,  into 
that  wood,  and  so  grew  into  a  tree.  The  Harpies  then  fed  on  its 
leaves,  causing  both  pain  and  a  vent  for  lamentation.  The  body 
it  would  never  again  enter,  having  thus  cast  away  itself,  but  it 
would  finally  drag  the  body  down  to  it  by  a  violent  attraction ; 
and  every  suicide's  carcass  will  be  hung  upon  the  thorn  of  its 
wretched  shade. 

The  naked  souls  of  two  men,  whose  profusion  had  brought 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH    HELL.  G5 

them  to  u  violent  end,  here  came  runninn-  throuirh  the  wood  from 
tlie  fanjjs  of  bhick  female  mastitis — Icavinir  that  of  a  suicide  to 
mourn  the  havoc  which  their  passage  had  made  of  his  tree.  He 
begged  his  countryman  to  gather  his  leaves  up,  and  lay  them  at 
the  foot  of  his  trunk,  and  Dante  did  so ;  and  then  he  and  Virgil 
proceeded  on  their  journey. 

They  issued  from  the  wood  on  a  barren  sand,  flaming  hot,  on 
which  multitudes  of  naked  souls  lay  down,  or  sat  huddled  up,  or 
restlessly  walked  about,  tryino;  to  throw  from  them  incessant 
flakes  of  Are,  which  came  down  like  a  fall  of  snow.  They  were 
the  souls  of  the  Impious.  Among  them  was  a  great  spirit,  who 
lay  scornfully  submitting  himself  to  the  fiery  shower,  as  though 
it  had  not  yet  ripened  him.*  Overhearing  Dante  ask  his  guide 
who  he  was,  he  answered  for  himself,  and  said,  "  The  same  dead 
as  living.     Jove  will  tire  his  flames  out  before  they  conquer  me." 

"  Capaneus,"  exclaimed  Virgil,  "  thy  pride  is  thy  punishment. 
No  martyrdom  were  sufficient  for  thee,  equal  to  thine  own  rage." 
The  besieger  of  Thebes  made  no  reply. 

In  another  quarter  of  the  fiery  shower  the  pilgrims  met  a 
crowd  of  Florentines,  mostly  churchmen,  whose  offence  is  not  to 
be  named ;  after  which  they  beheld  Usurers ;  and  then  arrived 
at  a  huge  waterfall,  which  fell  into  the  eighth  circle,  or  that  of 
the  Fraudulent.  Here  Virgil,  by  way  of  bait  to  the  monster 
Geryon,  or  Fraud,  let  down  over  the  side  of  the  waterfall  the 
cord  of  St.  Francis,  which  Dante  wore  about  his  waist,f  and  pres- 
ently the  dreadful  creature  came  up,  and  sate  on  the  margin  of 
the  fall,  with  his  serpent's  tail  hanging  behind  him  in  the  air,  af- 
ter the  manner  of  a  beaver ;  but  the  point  of  the  tail  was  occa- 

*  "  Si  che  la  pioggia  non  par  che  'I  maturi." 

This  is  one  of  the  grandest  passages  in  Dante.  It  was  probably  (as  English 
commentators  have  observed)  in  Milton's  recollection  when  he  conceived  the 
character  of  Satan. 

t  The  satire  of  friarly  hypocrisy  is  at  least  as  fine  as  Ariosto's  discovery  of 
Discord  in  a  monEistery. 

The  monster  Geryon,  son  of  Chrysaor  {Golden-sword),  and  the  Ocean-nymph 
Callirhoe  {Fair- flowing),  was  rich  in  the  possession  of  sheep.  His  wealth, 
and  perhaps  his  derivatives,  rendered  him  this  instrument  of  satire.  The  mon- 
strosity, the  mild  face,  the  glancing  point  of  venom,  and  the  beautiful  skin, 
make  it  as  fine  as  can  be. 

6 


66  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


sionally  seen  glancing  upwards.  He  was  a  gigantic  reptile,  with 
the  face  of  a  just  man,  very  mild.  He  had  shaggy  claws  for 
arms,  and  a  body  variegated  all  over  with  colours  that  ran  in 
knots  and  circles,  each  within  the  other,  richer  than  any  Eastern 
drapery.  Virgil  spoke  apart  to  him,  and  then  mounted  on  his 
back,  bidding  his  companion,  who  was  speechless  for  terror,  do 
the  same.  Geryon  pushed  back  with  them  from  the  edge  of  the 
precipice,  like  a  ship  leaving  harbour ;  and  then,  turning  about, 
wheeled,  like  a  sullen  successless  falcon,  slowly  down  through 
the  air  in  many  a  circuit.  Dante  would  not  have  known  that  he 
was  going  downward,  but  for  the  air  that  struck  upwards  on  his 
face.  Presently  they  heard  the  crash  of  the  waterfall  on  the  cir- 
cle below,  and  then  distino-uished  flamino;  fires  and  the  noises  of 
suffering.  The  monster  Geryon,  ever  sullen  as  the  falcon  who 
seats  himself  at  a  distance  from  his  dissatisfied  master,  shook  his 
riders  from  off  his  back  to  the  water's  side,  and  then  shot  away 
like  an  arrow. 

This  eighth  circle  of  hell  is  called  Evil-Budget,*  and  consists  of 
ten  compartments,  or  gulfs  of  torment,  crossed  and  connected 
with  one  another  by  bridges  of  flint.  In  the  first  were  beheld 
Pimps  and  Seducers,  scourged  like  children  by  horned  devils  ; 
in  the  second.  Flatterers,  begrimed  with  ordure  ;  in  the  third, 
Simonists,  who  were  stuck  like  plugs  into  circular  apertures,  with 
their  heads  downwards,  and  their  legs  only  discernible,  the  soles 
of  their  feet  glowing  with  a  fire  which  made  them  incessantly 
quiver.  Dante,  going  down  the  side  of  the  gulf  with  Virgil, 
was  allowed  to  address  one  of  them  who  seemed  in  greater  agony 
than  the  rest ;   and  doing  so,  the  sufferer  cried  out  in  a  malignant 


*  "  Malcbolge,''  literally  Evil-Budget.  Bolgia  is  an  old  form  of  the  modern 
baule,  the  common  term  for  a  valise  or  portmanteau.  "  Bolgia"  (says  the 
Vocaholario  delta  Crusca,  compendiato,  Ven.  1792),  "  a  valise  ;  Latin,  bulga, 
hippopera  ;  Greek,  [mro-nfipa.  In  reference  to  valises  which  open  lengthways 
like  a  chest,  Dante  uses  the  word  to  signify  those  compartments  which  he  feigns 
in  his  Ilell."  (Per  similitudine  di  quelle  valigie,  che  s'  aprono  per  lo  lungo,  a 
guisa  di  cassa,  significa  quegli  spartimenti,  che  Dante  finge  nell'  Inferno.)  The 
reader  will  think  of  the  homely  figurative  names  in  Bunyan,  and  the  contempt 
which  great  and  awful  states  of  mind  have  for  conventional  notions  of  rank  in 
phraseology.     It  is  a  part,  if  well  considered,  of  their  grandeur. 


THE   JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  67 

rapture,  "  Aha,  is  it  thou  that  standest  there,  Boniface  ?*  Thou 
hast  come  sooner  than  it  was  prophesied."  It  was  the  soul  of 
Pope  Nicholas  the  Third  that  spoke.  Dante  undeceived  and  then 
sternly  rebuked  him  for  his  avarice  and  depravity,  telling  him 
that  nothing  but  reverence  for  the  keys  of  St.  Peter  hindered  him 
from  using  harsher  words,  and  that  it  was  such  as  he  that  the 
Evangelist  beheld  in  the  vision,  when  he  saw  the  woman  with 
seven  heads  and  ten  horns,  who  committed  whoredom  with  the 
kings  of  the  earth. 

"  O  Constantine  !"  exclaimed  the  poet,  "  of  what  a  world  of 
evil  was  that  dowry  the  mother,  which  first  converted  the  pastor 
of  the  church  into  a  rich  man  !"f  The  feet  of  the  guilty  pope 
spun  with  fiercer  agony  at  these  words ;  and  Virgil,  look- 
ing  pleased  on  Dante,  returned  with  him  the  way  he  came,  till 
they  found  themselves  on  the  margin  of  the  fourth  gulf,  the  hab- 
itation of  the  souls  of  False  Prophets. 

It  was  a  valley,  in  which  the  souls  came  walking  along,  silent 
and  weeping,  at  the  pace  of  choristers  who  chant  litanies. 
Their  faces  were  turned  the  wrong  way,  so  that  the  backs  of  their 
heads  came  foremost,  and  their  tears  fell  on  their  loins.  Dante 
was  so  overcome  at  the  sight,  that  he  leant  against  a  rock  and 
wept ;  but  Virgil  rebuked  him,  telling  him  that  no  pity  at  all  was 
the  only  pity  fit  for  that  place.:}:  There  was  Amphiaraus,  whom 
the  earth  opened  and  swallowed  up  at  Thebes  ;  and  Tiresias, 
who  was  transformed  from  sex  to  sex ;   and  Aruns,  who  lived  in 

*  Boniface  the  Eighth  was  the  pope  then  living,  and  one  of  the  causes  of 
Dante's  exile.  It  is  thus  the  poet  contrives  to  put  his  enemies  in  hell  before 
their  time. 

t  An  allusion  to  the  pretended  gift  of  the  Lateran  by  Constantine  to  Pope 
Sylvester,  ridiculed  so  strongly  by  Ariosto  and  others. 

t  A  truly  infernal  sentiment.     The  original  is, 

"  Qui  vive  la  pietS.  quand'  b  ben  morta." 
Here  pity  lives  when  it  is  quite  dead. 

"  Chi  b  piu  scellerato,"  continues  the  poet,  "  di  colui, 
Ch'  al  giudicio  divin  passion  porta." 

That  is:  "  Who  is  wickeder  than  he  that  sets  his  impa.ssioned  feelings  against 
the  judgments  of  God  ?"  The  answer  is  :  He  that  attributes  judgments  to  God 
which  are  to  render  humanity  pitiless. 


68  THE   ITALIAxX   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


a  ciivcrii  on  the  side  of  the  marble  mountains  of  Carrara,  looking 
out  on  the  stars  and  ocean  ;  and  Manto,  daughter  of  Tiresias 
(her  Jiind  tresses  over  her  bosom),  who  wandered  through  the 
world  till  she  came  and  lived  in  the  solitary  fen,  whence  after- 
wards arose  the  city  of  Mantua  ;  and  Michael  Scot,  the  ixiagician, 
w  ith  his  slender  loins  ;*  and  Eurypylus,  the  Grecian  augur,  who 
gave  the  signal  with  Calchas  at  Troy  when  to  cut  away  the  ca- 
bles for  home.  He  came  stooping  along,  projecting  his  face  over 
liis  swarthy  shoulders.  Guido  Bonatti,  too,  was  there,  astrologer 
of  Forli  ;  and  Ardente,  shoemaker  of  Parma,  who  now  wishes  he 
had  stuck  to  his  last ;  and  the  wretched  women  who  quit  the 
needle  and  the  distaff  to  wreak  their  malice  with  herbs  and  -^ 
images.  Such  was  the  punishment  of  those  who,  desiring  to  see 
too  far  before  them,  now  looked  only  behind  them,  and  walked 
the  reverse  way  of  their  looking. 

The  fifth  gulf  was  a  lake  of  boiling  pitch,  constantly  heaving 
and  subsiding  throughout,  and  bubbling  with  the  breath  of  those 
within  it.  They  were  Public  Peculators.  Winged  black  devils 
were  busy  about  the  lake,  pronging  the  sinners  when  they  occa- 
sionally darted  up  their  backs  for  relief  like  dolphins,  or  thrust 
out  their  jaws  like  frogs.  Dante  at  first  looked  eagerly  down  into 
the  gulf,  like  one  who  feels  that  he  shall  turn  away  instantly  out 
of  the  very  horror  that  attracts  him.  "  See — look  behind  thee  !'" 
said  Virgil,  dragging  him  at  the  same  time  from  the  place  where 
he  stood,  to  a  covert  behind  a  crag.  Dante  looked  round,  and 
beheld  a  devil  coming  up  with  a  newly-arrived  sinner  across  his 
shoulders,  whom  he  hurled  into  the  lake,  and  then  dashed  down 
afler  him,  like  a  mastiff  let  loose  on  a  thief.  It  was  a  man  from 
Lucca,  where   every  soul  was  a  false  dealer  except  Bonturo.f 

*  Nc'fianchi  cost  poco.  Michael  Scot  had  been  in  Florence  ;  to  which  cir- 
cumstance we  are  most  probably  indebted  for  this  curious  particular  respecting 
his  shape.  The  consinrnment  of  such  men  lo  hell  is  a  mortifying  instance  of 
the  great  poet's  participation  in  the  vulgarest  errors  of  his  time.  It  is  hardly, 
liowever,  worth  notice,  considering  what  we  see  him  swallowing  every  moment, 
or  pretending  to  swallow. 

t  "  IJonliiro  must  have  sold  him  something  cheap,"  exclaimed  a  hearer  of 
this  passage.  No : — the  exception  is  an  irony !  There  was  not  one  honest 
man  in  all  Lucca  ! 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  69 

riie  devil  eallctl  out  to  other  devils,  and  a  heap  of  them  fell  upon 
the  wretch  with  hooks  as  he  rose  to  the  surface  ;  telling  him,  tiiat 
[le  must  practise  there  in  secret,  if  he  practised  at  all  ;  and 
Jirustiiig  him  back  into  the  boiling  pitch,  as  cooks  thrust  back 
lesh  into  the  pot.  The  devils  were  of  the  lowest  and  most  re- 
volting habits,  of  which  they  made  disgusting  jest  and  parade. 
Some  of  them,  on  a  sudden,  perceived  Dante  and  his  guide,  and 
ivere  going  to  seize  them,  when  Virgil  resorted  to  his  usual  holy 
'ebuke.  For  a  while  they  let  him  alone  ;  and  Dante  saw  one 
)f  them  haul  a  sinner  out  of  the  pitch  by  the  clotted  locks,  and 
lold  him  up  sprawling  like  an  otter.  The  rest  then  fell  upon 
lim  and  flayed  him. 

It  was  Ciampolo,  a  peculator  in  the  service  of  the  good  Thie- 
)ault,  king  of  Navarre.  One  of  his  companions  under  the 
)itch  was  Friar  Gomita,  governor  of  Gallura;  and  another, 
Vlichael  Zanche,  also  a  Sardinian.  Ciampolo  ultimately  escaped 
)v  a  trick  out  of  the  hands  of  the  devils,  who  were  so  enra"-ed 
hut  they  turned  upon  the  two  pilgrims  ;  but  Virgil,  catching  up 
3ante  with  supernatural  force,  as  a  mother  does  a  child  in  a 
)urning  house,  plunged  with  him  out  of  their  jurisdiction  intf 
he  borders  of  gulf  the  sixth,  the  region  of  Hypocrites. 

The  hypocrites,  in  perpetual  tears,  walked  about  in  a  weari- 
lome  and  exhausted  manner,  as  if  ready  to  faint.  They  wore 
mge  cowls,  which  hung  over  their  eyes,  and  the  outsides  of 
vhich  were  gilded,  but  the  insides  of  lead.  Two  of  them  had 
)een  rulers  of  Florence  ;  and  Uante  was  listening  to  their  story, 
vhen  his  attention  was  called  off  by  the  sight  of  a  cross,  or 
viiich  Caiaphas  the  High  Priest  was  writhing,  breathing  hard  all 
he  while  through  his  beard  with  sighs.  It  was  his  office  to  see 
hat  every  soul  which  passed  him,  on  its  arrival  in  the  place,  was 
>ppressed  with  the  due  weight.  His  father-in-law,  Annas,  and 
dl  his  council,  were  stuck  in  like  manner  on  crosses  round  the 
jorders  of  the  gulf.  The  pilgrims  beheld  little  else  in  this  region 
»f  weariness,  and  soon  passed  into  the  borders  of  one  of  the  most 
errible  portions  of  Evil-budget,  the  land  of  the  transformation 
>f  Robbers. 

The  place  was  thronged  with  serpents  of  the  most  appalling  and 
m wonted  description,  among  which    ran   tormented  the  naked 


70  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


spirits  of  the  robbers,  agonised  with  fear.  Their  hands  were 
bound  behind  them  with  serpents — their  bodies  pierced  and  en- 
folded with  serpents.  Dante  saw  one  of  the  monsters  leap  up 
and  transfix  a  man  through  the  nape  of  the  neck ;  when,  lo  ! 
sooner  than  a  pen  could  write  o  or  i,  the  sufferer  burst  into  flames, 
burnt  up,  fell  to  the  earth  a  heap  of  ashes — was  again  brought 
together,  and  again  became  a  man,  aghast  with  his  agony,  and 
staring  about  him,  sighing.*     Virgil  asked  him  who  he  was. 

'•  I  was  but  lately  rained  down  into  this  dire  gullet,"  said  the 
man,  "  amidst  a  shower  of  Tuscans.  The  beast  Vanni  Fucci 
am  I,  who  led  a  brutal  life,  like  the  mule  that  I  was,  in  that  den 
Pistoia." 

"  Compel  him  to  stop,"  said  Dante,  "  and  relate  what  brought 
him  hither.  I  knew  the  bloody  and  choleric  wretch  when  he 
was  alive." 

The  sinner,  who  did  not  pretend  to  be  deaf  to  these  words, 
turned  round  to  the  speaker  with  the  most  painful  shame  in  his 
face,  and  said,  "  I  feel  more  bitterly  at  being  caught  here  by  thee 
in  this  condition,  than  when  I  first  arrived.  A  power  which  I 
cannot  resist  compels  me  to  let  thee  know,  that  I  am  here  because 
I  committed  sacrilege  and  charged  another  with  the  crime  ;  but 
now,  mark  me,  that  thou  mayest  hear  something  not  to  render 
this  encounter  so  pleasant :  Pistoia  hates  thy  party  of  the  Whites, 
and  longs  for  the  Blacks  back  again.  It  will  have  them,  and  so 
will  Florence  ;  and  there  will  be  a  bloody  cloud  shall  burst  over 
the  battle-field  of  Piceno,  which  will  dash  many  Whites  to  the 
eai'th.     I  tell  thee  this  to  make  thee  miserable." 

So  saying,  the  wretch  gave  a  gesture  of  contempt  with  his 
thumb  and  finger  towards  heaven,  and  said,  "  Take  it,  God — a 
fig  for  thee  !"t 

*  "  Intorno  si  mira 
Tutto  smarrito  da  la  grande  angoscia 
Cli'  egli  ha  sofferta,  e  guardaiido  sospira." 

This  is  one  of  the  most  terribly  natural  pictures  of  agonised  astonishment  ever 
painted. 

t  I  retain  this  passage,  horrible  as  it  is  to  Protestant  ears,  because  it  is  not 
only  an  instance  of  Dante's  own  audacity,  but  a  salutary  warning  specimen  of 
the  extremes  of  impiety  generated  by  extreme  superstition  ;  for  their  first  cause 


THE  JOURNEY    THROUGH   HELL.  71 


"From  that  instant,"  said  Dante,  "the  serpents  and  I  were 
friends ;  for  one  of  them  throttled  him  into  silence,  and  another 
dashed  his  hands  into  a  knot  behind  his  back.  O  Pistoia  !  Pis- 
toia  !  why  art  not  thou  thyself  turned  into  ashes,  and  swept  from 
the  face  of  the  earth,  since  thy  race  has  surpassed  in  evil  thine 
ancestors  ?  Never,  through  the  whole  darkness  of  hell,  beheld  I 
a  blasphemer  so  dire  as  this — not  even  Capaneus  himself." 

The  Pistoian  fled  away  with  the  serpents  upon  him,  followed 
by  a  Centaur,  who  came  madly  galloping  up,  crying,  "  Where  is 
the  caititf?"  It  was  the  monster-thief  Cacus,  whose  den  upon 
earth  often  had  a  pond  of  blood  before  it,  and  to  whom  Hercules, 
in  his  rage,  when  he  slew  him,  gave  a  whole  hundred  blows  with 
his  club,  though  the  wretch  perceived  nothing  after  the  ninth. 
He  was  all  over  adders  up  to  the  mouth  ;  and  upon  his  shoulders 
lay  a  dragon  with  its  wings  open,  breathing  fire  on  whomsoever 
it  met. 

The  Centaur  tore  away ;  and  Dante  and  Virgil  were  gazing 
after  him,  when  they  heard  voices  beneath  the  bank  on  which 
they  stood,  crying,  "  Who  are  ye?"  The  pilgrims  turned  their 
eyes  downwards,  and  beheld  three  spirits,  one  of  whom,  looking 
about  him,  said,  "  Where's  Cianfa  ?"  Dante  made  a  sign  to 
Virgil  to  say  nothing. 

Cianfa  came  forth,  a  man  lately,  but  now  a  serpent  with  six 
feet.* 

'•If  thou  art  slow  to  believe,  reader,  what  I  am  about  to  tell 
thee,"  says  the  poet,  "  be  so ;  it  is  no  marvel ;  for  I  myself,  even 
now,  scarcely  credit  what  I  beheld.' 


J5 


is  the  degradation  of  the  Divine  character.  Another,  no  doubt,  is  the  impul- 
sive vehemence  of  the  South.  I  have  heard  more  blasphemies,  in  the  course 
of  half  an  hour,  from  the  lips  of  an  Italian  postilion,  than  are  probably  uttered 
in  England,  by  people  not  out  of  their  senses,  for  a  whole  year.  Yet  the 
words,  after  all,  were  mere  words ;  for  the  man  was  a  good-natured  fellow,  and 
I  believe  presented  no  image  to  his  mind  of  anything  he  was  saying.  Dante, 
however,  would  certainly  not  have  taught  him  better  by  attempting  to  frighten 
him.  A  violent  word  would  have  only  produced  more  violence.  Yet  this  was 
the  idle  round  which  the  great  poet  thought  it  best  to  run  I 

*  Cianfa,  probably  a  condottiere  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  sort,  and  robber,  on  a 
large  scale,  is  said  to  have  been  one  of  the  Donati  family,  connexions  of  the 
poet  by  marriage. 


i 


72  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIMS   PROGRESS. 


The  six-footed  serpent  sprang  at  one  of  the  three  men  front  to 
front,  clasping  him  tightly  witli  all  its  legs,  and  plunging  liis 
fun'^s  into  either  cheek.  Ivy  never  stuck  so  close  to  a  tree  as  the 
horrible  monster  grappled  with  every  limb  of  that  pinioned  man. 
The  two  forms  then  gradually  mingled  into  one  another  like 
meltinfT  wax,  the  colours  of  their  skin  giving  way  at  the  same  time 
tu  u  third  colour,  as  the  white  in  a  piece  of  burning  paper  re- 
cedes before  the  brown,  till  it  all  becomes  black.  The  other  J 
two  human  shapes  looked  on,  exclaiming,  "  Oh,  how  thou  changest/ 
Afmello!  See,  thou  art  neither  two  nor  yet  one."  And  truly, 
thouidi  the  two  heads  first  became  one,  there  still  remained  two 
countenances  in  the  face.  The  four  arms  then  became  but 
two,  and  such  also  became  the  legs  and  thighs  ;  and  the  two 
trunks  became  such  a  body  as  was  never  beheld  ;  and  the  hideous 
two-fold  monster  walked  slowly  away.* 

A  small  black  serpent  on  fire  now  flashed  like  lightning  on  to 
the  body  of  one  of  the  other  two,  piercing  him  in  the  navel,  and 
then  falling  on  the  ground,  and  lying  stretched  before  him.  The 
wounded  man,  fascinated  and  mute,  stood  looking  at  the  adder's 
eyes,  and  endeavouring  to  stand  steady  on  his  legs,  yawning  the 
while  as  if  smitten  with  lethargy  or  fever ;  the  adder,  on  his  part, 
looked  up  at  the  eyes  of  the  man,  and  both  of  them  breathed 
hard,  and  sent  forth  a  smoke  that  mingled  into  one  volume. 

And  now,  let  Lucan  never  speak  more  of  the  wretched  Sabel- 
lus  or  Nisidius,  but  listen  and  be  silent ;  and  now,  let  Ovid  be 
silent,  nor  speak  again  of  his  serpent  that  was  Cadmus,  or  his 
fountain  that  was  Arethusa ;  for,  says  the  Tuscan  poet,  I  envy 
him  not.  Never  did  he  change  the  natures  of  two  creatures  face 
to  face,  so  that  each  received  the  form  of  the  other. 

With  corresponding  impulse,  the  serpent  split  his  train  into  a 
fork,  while  the  man  drew  his  legs  together  into  a  train ;  the  skin 
of  the  serpent  grew  soft,  while  the  man's  hardened ;  the  serpent 
acquired  tresses  of  hair,  the  man  grew  hairless;  the  claws  of  the 
one  projected  into  legs,  while  the  arms  of  the  other  withdrew  into 

*  This,  and  tlio  Irans&irniatiou  that  follows,  may  well  excite  the  pride  of 
such  a  poet  as  Dante  ;  though  it  is  curious  to  see  how  he  selects  inventions  of 
this  kind  as  special  grounds  of  self-complacency.  They  are  the  most  appalling 
•ver  yet  produced. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HELL.  73 

his  shoulders ;  the  face  of  the  serpent,  as  it  rose  from  the  ground, 
retreated  towards  the  temples,  pushing  out  human  ears ;  that  of 
the  man,  as  he  fell  to  the  ground,  thrust  itself  forth  into  a  muzzle, 
withdrawing  at  the  same  time  its  ears  into  its  head,  as  the  slug 
does  its  horns ;  and  each  creature  kept  its  impious  eyes  fixed  on 
the  other's,  while  the  features  beneath  the  eyes  were  changing. 
The  soul  which  had  becc^iie  the  serpent  then  turned  to  crawl 
away,  hissing  in  scorn  as  he  departed ;  and  the  serpent,  which 
had  become  the  man,  spat  after  him,  and  spoke  words  at  him. 
The  new  human-looking  soul  then  turned  his  back  on  his  late 
adversary,  and  said  to  the  third  spirit,  who  remained  unchanged, 
"  Let  Buoso  now  take  to  his  crawl,  as  I  have  done." 

The  two  then  hastened  away  together,  leaving  Dante  in  a  state 
of  bewildered  amazement,  yet  not  so  confused  but  that  he  recog- 
nised the  unchanged  one  for  another  of  his  countiymen,  Puccio 
the  Lame.  "  Joy  to  thee,  Florence  !"  cried  the  poet ;  "  not  con- 
tent with  havino;  thy  name  bruited  over  land  and  sea,  it  flourishes 
throughout  hell." 

The  pilgrims  now  quitted  the  seventh,  and  looked  down  from 
its  barrier  into  the  eighth  gulf,  where  they  saw  innumerable 
flames,  distinct  from  one  another,  flickering  all  over  the  place 
like  fire-flies, 

"  In  those  flames,"  said  Virgil,  "  are  souls,  each  tormented 
with  the  fire  that  swathes  it." 

*'  I  observe  one,"  said  Dante,  "  divided  at  the  summit.  Are 
the  Theban  brothers  in  it  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Virgil  ;  "  in  that  flame  are  Diomed  and  Ulys- 
ses." The  sinners  punished  in  this  gulf  were  Evil  Counsellors ; 
and  those  two  were  the  advisers  of  the  stratagem  of  the  Trojan 

horse. 

Viro-il  addressed  Ulysses,  who  told  him  the  conclusion  of  his 
adventures,  not  to  be  found  in  books :  how  he  tired  of  an  idle  life, 
and  sailed  forth  again  into  the  wide  ocean ;  and  how  he  sailed  so 
far  that  he  came  into  a  region  of  new  stars,  and  in  sight  of  a 
mountain,  the  loftiest  he  ever  saw  ;  when,  unfortunately,  a  hurri- 
cane fell  upon  them  from  the  shore,  thrice  whirled  their  vessel 
round,  then  dashed  the  stern  up  in  air  and  the  prow  under  water, 
and  sent  the  billows  over  their  heads. 


THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


"  Enouf^li,"  said  Virgil ;  "  I  trouble  thee  no  more."  The  soul 
of  Guido  di  Montefeltro,  overhearing  the  great  Mantuan  speak 
in  a  Lombard  dialect,  asked  him  news  of  the  state  of  things  in 
Romagna ;  and  then  told  him  how  he  had  lost  his  chance  of  para- 
dise, by  thinking  Pope  Boniface  could  at  once  absolve  him  from 
his  sins,  and  use  them  for  his  purposes.*  He  was  going  to  hea- 
ven, he  said,  by  the  help  of  St.  Francis,  who  came  on  purpose  to 
fetch  him,  when  a  black  angel  met  them,  and  demanded  his  ab- 
solved, indeed,  but  unrepented  victim.  "  To  repent  evil,  and  to 
will  to  do  it,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  are,"  said  the  dreadful 
angel,  "  impossible  :  therefore  wrong  me  not."  "  Oh,  how  I 
shook,"  said  the  unhappy  Guido,  "  when  he  laid  his  hands  upon 
me  !"  And  with  these  words  the  flame  writhed  and  beat  itself 
about  for  agony,  and  so  took  its  way. 

The  pilgrims  crossed  over  to  the  banks  of  the  ninth  gulf, 
where  the  Sowers  of  Scandal,  the  Schismatics,  Heretics,  and 
Founders  of  False  Religions,  underwent  the  penalties  of  such  as 
load  themselves  with  the  sins  of  those  whom  they  seduce. 

The  first  sight  they  beheld  was  Mahomet,  tearing  open  his  own 
bowels,  and  calling  out  to  them  to  mark  him.  Before  him  walked 
liis  son-in-law,  Ali,  weeping,  and  cloven  to  the  chin  ;  and  the  di- 
visions in  the  cliurch  were  punished  in  like  manner  upon  all  the 
schismatics  in  the  place.  They  all  walked  round  the  circle, 
their  gashes  closing  as  they  went ;  and  on  their  reaching  a  cer- 
tain point,  a  fiend  hewed  them  open  again  with  a  sword.  The 
Arabian  prophet,  ere  he  passed  on,  bade  the  pilgrims  warn  Friar 
Dolcino  how  he  suffered  himself  to  be  surprised  in  his  mountain- 
hold  by  the' starvations  of  winter-time,  if  he  did  not  wish  speedily 
to  follow  him.j- 

*  Guido,  Conte  di  Montefeltro,  a  celebrated  soldier  of  that  day,  became  a 
Franciscan  in  his  old  age,  in  order  to  repent  of  his  sins ;  but,  being  consulted  in 
his  cloister  by  Pope  Boniface  on  the  best  mode  of  getting  possession  of  an  estate 
belonging  to  the  Colonna  family,  and  being  promised  absolution  for  his  sins  in 
the  lump,  including  the  opinion  requested,  he  recommended  the  holy  father  to 
"  promise  much,  and  perform  nothing"  {molto  proitietiere,  e  nulla  attendere). 

t  Dolcino  was  a  Lombard  friar  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
who  is  said  to  have  preached  a  community  of  goods,  including  women,  and  to 
have  pretended  to  a  divine  mission  for  reforming  the  church.  He  appeare  to 
have  made  a  considerable  impression,  having  thousands  of  followers,  but  was 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  75 


Among  other  mangled  wretches,  they  beheld  Piero  of  Medicina, 
L  sower  of  dissension,  exhibiting  to  them  his  face  and  throat  all 
»ver  wounds ;  and  Curio,  compelled  to  shew  his  tongue  cut  out 
or  advising  Caesar  to  cross  the  Rubicon  ;  and  Mosca  de'  Lam- 
)erti,  an  adviser  of  assassination,  and  one  of  the  authors  of  the 
jruelf  and  Ghibellinc  miseries,  holding  up  the  bleeding  stumps  of 
lis  arms,  which  dripped  on  his  face.  "  Remember  Mosca,"  cried 
le ;  "  remember  him,  alas  !  who  said,  '  A  deed  done  is  a  thing 
inded.'     A  bad  saying  of  mine  was  that  for  the  Tuscan  nation." 

"  And  death  to  thy  family,"  cried  Dante. 

The  assassin  hurried  away  like  a  man  driven  mad  with  grief 
ipon  grief;  and  Dante  now  beheld  a  sight,  which,  if  it  were  not, 
le  says,  for  the  testimony  of  a  good  conscience — that  best  of 
riends,  which  gives  a  man  assurance  of  himself  under  the  breast- 
>late  of  a  spotless  innocence* — he  should  be  afraid  to  relate 
vithout  further  proof.  He  saw — and  while  he  was  writing  the 
Lccount  of  it  he  still  appeared  to  see — a  headless  trunk  about 
0  come  past  him  with  the  others.  It  held  its  severed  head  by 
he  hair,  like  a  lantern  ;  and  the  head  looked  up  at  the  two  pil- 
grims, and  said,  "  Woe  is  me !"    The  head  was,  in  fact,  a  lantern 

0  the  paths  of  the  trunk  ;  and  thus  there  were  two  separated 
hings  in  one,  and  one  in  two ;   and  how  that  could  be,  he  only 

iltimately  seized  in  the  mountains  where  they  lived,  and  burnt  with  his  female 
lompanion  Margarita,  and  many  others.  Landino  says  he  was  very  eloquent, 
md  that  "  both  he  and  Margarita  endured  their  fate  with  a  firmness  worthy  of 
L  better  cause."  Probably  his  real  history  is  not  known,  for  want  of  somebody 
n  such  times  bold  enough  to  write  it. 
*  Literally,  "  under  the  breastplate  of  knowing  himself  to  be  pure  :" 

"  Sotto  1'  osbergo  del  sentirsi  pnra." 

Phe  expression  is  deservedly  admired  ;  but  it  is  not  allowable  in  English,  and 
t  is  the  only  one  admitting  no  equivalent  which  I  have  met  with  in  the  whole 
loem.     It  might  be  argued,  perhaps,  against  the  perfection  of  the  passage,  that 

1  good  "  conscience,"  and  a  man's  "  knowing  himself  to  be  pure,"  are  a  tau- 
oIofiM ;  for  Dante  himself  has  already  used  that  word  ; 

"  Conscienzia  m'  assicura  ; 
La  buona  compagnia  che  1'  uom  francheggia 
Sotto  r  o.sbergo,"  &c. 

But  still  we  feel  the  impulsive  beauty  of  the  phrase  ;  and  I  wish  I  could  have 
kept  it. 


76  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


can  tell  who  ordained  it.     As  the  figure  came  nearer,  it  liftei 
the  head  aloft,  that  the  pilgrims  might  hear  better  what  it  said. 

"  Behold,"  it  said,  "  behold,  thou  that  walkest  living  among  th( 
dead,  and  say  if  there  be  any  punishment  like  this.  I  am  Ber 
trand  de  Born,  he  that  incited  John  of  England  to  rebel  agains 
his  father.  Father  and  son  I  set  at  variance — closest  affections 
set  at  variance — and  hence  do  I  bear  my  brain  severed  from  the 
body  on  which  it  grew.     In  me  behold  the  work  of  retribution.""' 

The  eyes  of  Dante  were  so  inebriate  with  all  that  diversity  of 
bleeding  wounds,  that  they  longed  to  stay  and  weep  ere  his  guide 
proceeded  further.  Something  also  struck  them  on  the  suddei 
which  added  to  his  desire  to  stop.  But  Virgil  asked  what  ailec 
him,  and  why  he  stood  gazing  still  on  the  wretched  multitude 
"  Thou  hast  not  done  so,"  continued  he,  "  in  any  other  portion  of 
this  circle  ;  and  the  valley  is  twenty-two  miles  further  about,  anc 
the  moon  already  below  us.  Thou  hast  more  yet  to  see  than 
thou  wettest  of,  and  the  time  is  short." 

Dante,  excusing  himself  for  the  delay,  and  proceeding  to  follow 
his  leader,  said  he  thought  he  had  seen,  in  the  cavern  at  which 
he  was  gazing  so  hard,  a  spirit  that  was  one  of  his  own  family — 
and  it  was  so.  It  was  the  soul  of  Geri  del  Bello,  a  cousin  of  the 
poet's.  Virgil  said  that  he  had  observed  him,  while  Dante  was 
occupied  with  Bertrand  de  Born,  pointing  at  his  kinsman  in  a 
threatening  manner.  "  Waste  not  a  thought  on  him,"  concluded 
the  Roman,  "but  leave  him  as  he  is." 

"  O  honoured  guide !"  said  Dante,  "  he  died  a  violent  death, 
which  his  kinsmen  have  not  yet  avenged  ;  and  hence  it  is  that  he 
disdained  to  speak  to  me  ;  and  I  must  needs  feel  for  him  the  more 
on  that  account. "f 

They  came  now  to  the  last  partition  of  the  circle  of  Evil-budgJ 
et,  and  their  ears  were  assailed  with  such  a  burst  of  sharp  wail-' 
ings,  that  Dante  was  fain  to  close  his  with  his  hands.  Thei 
misery  there,  accompanied  by  a  horrible  odour,  was  as  if  all  the 

hospitals  in  the  sultry  marshes  of  Valdichiana  had  brought\heir 

I 

*  This  ghastly  fiction  is  a  rare  instance  of  the  meeting  of  physical  horror' 
with  the  truest  pathos. 

t  The  reader  will  not  fail  to  notice  this  characteristic  instance  of  the  ferocity 
of  the  time. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  77 

aladies  together  into  one  infernal  ditch.  It  was  the  place  of 
mishment  for  pretended  Alchemists,  Coiners,  Personators  of 
her  people,  False  Accusers,  and  Impostors  of  all  such  descrip- 
)ns.  They  lay  on  one  another  in  heaps,  or  attempted  to  crawl 
>out — some  itching  madly  with  leprosies — some  swollen  and 
.sping  with  dropsies — some  wetly  reeking,  like  hands  washed 
winter-time.  One  was  an  alchemist  of  Sienna,  a  nation  vainer 
an  the  French ;  another  a  Florentine,  who  tricked  a  man  into 
aking  a  wrong  will ;  another,  Sinon  of  Troy  ;  another,  Myrrha ; 
lOther,  the  wife  of  Potiphar.  Their  miseries  did  not  hinder 
em  from  giving  one  another  malignant  blows  ;  and  Dante  was 
tening  eagerly  to  an  abusive  conversation  between  Sinon  and  a 
•escian  coiner,  when  Virgil  rebuked  him  for  the  disgraceful  con- 
scension,  and  said  it  was  a  pleasure  fit  only  for  vulgar  minds.* 
The  blushing  poet  felt  the  reproof  so  deeply,  that  he  could  not 
eak  for  shame,  though  he  manifested  by  his  demeanour  that  he 
iged  to  do  so,  and  thus  obtained  the  pardon  he  despaired  of. 
3  says  he  felt  like  a  man  that,  during  an  unhappy  dream,  wish- 
himself  dreaming  while  he  is  so,  and  does  not  know  it.  Virgil 
iderstood  his  emotion,  and,  as  Achilles  did  with  his  spear,  healed 
3  wound  with  the  tongue  that  inflicted  it. 

A  silence  now  ensued  between  the  companions ;  for  they  had 
litted  Evil-budget,  and  arrived  at  the  ninth  great  circle  of  hell, 
the  mound  of  which  they  passed  along,  looking  quietly  and 
;adily  before  them.  Daylight  had  given  place  to  twilight ;  and 
inte  was  advancing  his  head  a  little,  and  endeavouring  to  dis- 
rn  objects  in  the  distance,  when  his  whole  attention  was  called 
one  particular  spot,  by  a  blast  of  a  horn  so  loud,  that  a  thunder- 
ip  was  a  whisper  in  comparison.  Orlando  himself  blew  no 
ch  terrific  blast,  after  the  dolorous  rout,  when  Charlemagne 
is  defeated  in  his  holy  enterprise."!"     The  poet  raised  his  head. 

*  This  is  admirable  sentiment ;  and  it  must  have  been  no  ordinary  conscious- 
5S  of  dignity  in  general  wliich  could  have  made  Dante  allow  himself  to  be 
)  person  rebuked  for  having  forgotten  it.  Perhaps  it  was  a  sort  o^  penance 
his  having,  on  some  occasion,  fallen  into  the  unworthiness. 
t  By  the  Saracens  in  Roncesvalles  ;  afterwards  so  favourite  a  topic  with  the 
sts.  The  circumstance  of  the  horn  is  taken  from  the  Chronicle  of  the  pre- 
»ded  Archbishop  Turpi n,  chapter  xxiv. 


78  THE  ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


thinkinfT  he  perceived  a  multitude  of  lofty  towers.  He  asked 
Virgil  to  what  region  they  belonged  ;  but  Virgil  said,  "  Those 
are  no  towers :  they  are  giants,  standing  each  up  to  his  middle  in 
the  pit  that  goes  round  this  circle."  Dante  looked  harder  ;  and 
as  objects  clear  up  by  little  and  little  in  the  departing  mist,  he 
saw,  with  alarm,  the  tremendous  giants  that  warred  against  Jove, 
standing  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  pit,  like  the  towers  that 
crowned  the  citadel  of  Monteseggione.  The  one  whom  he  saw 
plainest,  and  who  stood  with  his  arms  hanging  down  on  each  side, 
appeared  to  him  to  have  a  face  as  huge  as  the  pinnacle  of  St. 
Peter's,  and  limbs  throughout  in  proportion.  The  monster,  as 
the  pilgrims  were  going  by,  opened  his  dreadful  mouth,  fit  for  no 
sweeter  psalmody,  and  called  after  them,  in  the  words  of  some 
unknown  tongue,  Rafel,  maee  a  mech  zahee  almee.^  "  Dull 
wretch  !"  exclaimed  Virgil,  "  keep  to  thine  horn,  and  so  vent 
better  whatsoever  frenzy  or  other  passion  stuff  thee.  Feel  the 
chain  round  thy  throat,  thou  confusion  !  See,  what  a  clenching 
hoop  is  about  thy  gorge  !"  Then  he  said  to  Dante,  "  His  howl  is 
its  own  mockery.  This  is  Nimrod,  he  through  whose  evil  am- 
bition it  was  that  mankind  ceased  to  speak  one  language.  Pass 
him,  and  say  nothing ;  for  every  other  tongue  is  to  him  as  his  is 
to  thee." 

The  companions  went  on  for  about  the  length  of  a  sling'a 
throw,  when  they  passed  the  second  giant,  who  was  much  fiercer 
and  huger  than  Nimrod.  He  was  fettered  round  and  round 
with  chains,  that  fixed  one  arm  before  him  and  the  other  behind 
him — Ephialtes  his  name,  the  same  that  would  needs  make  trial 
of  his  strength  against  Jove  himself.  The  hands  which  he  then' 
wielded  were  now  motionless,  but  he  shook  with  passion  ;  and 
Dante  thought  he  should  have  died  for  terror,  the  effect  on  the 
ground  about  him  was  so  fearful.  It  surpassed  that  of  a  tower 
shaken  by  an  earthquake.  The  poet  expressed  a  wish  to  look  at 
Briareus,  but  he  was  too  far  off.  He  saw,  however,  Antaeus, 
who,  not  having  fought  against  heaven,  was  neither  tongue-con- 
founded nor  shackled  ;    and  Virgil   requested   the  "  taker  of  a 

*  The  gaping  monotony  of  this  jargon,  full  of  the  vowel  a,  is  admirably 
suited  to  the  mouth  of  the  vast,  half-stupid  speaker.  It  is  like  a  babble  of  the 
gigantic  infancy  of  the  world. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  79 


thousand  lions,"  by  the  fiime  which  the  living  poet  had  it  in  his 
power  to  give  him,  to  bear  the  travellers  in  his  arms  down  the 
steep  descent  into  this  deeper  portion  of  hell,  which  was  the  re- 
gion of  tormenting  cold.  Antieus,  stooping,  like  the  leaning  tower 
)f  Bologna,  to  take  them  up,  gathered  them  in  his  arms,  and,  de- 
positing them  in  the  gulf  below,  raised  himself  to  depart  like  the 
iiast  of  a  ship.* 

Had  1  hoarse  and  rugged  words  equal  to  my  subject,  says  the 
Doet,  I  would  now  make  them  fuller  of  expression,  to  suit  the 
'ocky  horror  of  this  hole  of  anguish  ;  but  I  have  not,  and  there- 
fore approach  it  with  fear,  since  it  is  no  jesting  enterprise  to  de- 
scribe the  depths  of  the  universe,  nor  fit  for  a  tongue  that  babbles 
)f  father  and  mother. f  Let  such  of  the  Muses  assist  me  as 
urned  the  words  of  Amphion  into  Theban  walls  ;  so  shall  the 
ipeech  be  not  too  far  different  from  the  matter. 

Oh,  ill-starred  creatures  !  wretched  beyond  all  others,  to  in- 
labit  a  place  so  hard  to  speak  of — better  had  ye  been  sheep  or 


roats. 


The  poet  was  beginning  to  walk  with  his  guide  along  the  place 
n  which  the  giant  had  set  them  down,  and  was  still  looking  up  at 
he  height  from  which  he  had  descended,  when  a  voice  close  to 
lim  said,  "  Have  a  care  where  thou  treadest.  Hurt  not  with  thy 
eet  the  heads  of  thy  unhappy  brethren." 

Dante  looked  down  and  before  him,  and  saw  that  he  was  walk- 
ng  on  a  lake  of  ice,  in  which  were  Murderous  Traitors  up  to 
heir  chins,  their  teeth  chattering,  their  faces  held  down,  their 
lyes  locked  up  frozen  with  tears.  Dante  saw  two  at  his  feet  so 
dosely  stuck  together,  that  the  very  hairs  of  their  heads  were 
ningled.     He  asked  them  who  they  were,  and  as  they  lifted  up 

*  "  N6  si  chinato  li  fece  tlimora, 
E  come  albero  in  nave  si  lev6." 

I  magnificent  image  I  I  have  retained  the  idiomatic  expression  of  the  original 
aised  himself,  instead  of  saying  rose,  because  it  seemed  to  me  to  give  the 
lore  grand  and  deliberate  image. 

t  Of  "  mdmma"  and  "  hdhho,^''  says  the  primitive  poet.  We  have  corres- 
onding  words  in  English,  but  the  feeling  they  produce  is  not  identical.  The 
?sser  fervour  of  the  northern  nations  renders  them,  in  some  respects,  more  so- 
liisticate  than  they  suspect,  compared  with  the  "  artful''  Italians. 


no  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


their  heads  for  astonishment,  and  felt  the  cold  doubly  congeal 
them,  they  dashed  their  heads  against  one  another  for  hate  and 
fury.  They  were  two  brothers  who  had  murdered  each  other.* 
Near  them  were  other  Tuscans,  one  of  whom  the  cold  had  de- 
prived of  his  ears  ;  and  thousands  more  were  seen  grinning  like 
dogs,  for  the  pain. 

Dante,  as  he  went  along,  kicked  the  face  of  one  of  them, 
whether  by  chance,  or  fate,  or  i^///,|  he  could  not  say.  The 
sutierer  burst  into  tears,  and  cried  out,  "  Wherefore  dost  thou 
torment  me  ?  Art  thou  come  to  revenge  the  defeat  at  Monta- 
perto  ?"  The  pilgrim  at  this  question  felt  eager  to  know  who  he 
was  ;  but  the  unhappy  wretch  would  not  tell.  His  countryman 
seized  him  by  the  hair  to  force  him  ;  but  still  he  said  he  would 
not  tell,  were  he  to  be  scalped  a  thousand  times.  Dante,  uj)on 
this,  began  plucking  up  his  hairs  by  the  roots,  the  man  harking^X 
with  his  eyes  squeezed  up,  at  every  pull  ;  when  another  soul  ex- 
claimed, "  Why,  Bocca,  what  the  devil  ails  thee  ?  Must  thou 
needs  bark  for  cold  as  well  as  chatter  V'^ 

"  Now,  accursed  traitor,  betrayer  of  thy  country's  standard," 
said  Dante,  "  be  dumb  if  thou  wilt ;  for  I  shall  tell  thy  name  to 
the  world." 

"  Tell  and  begone !"  said  Bocca  ;  ''  but  carry  the  name  of  this 
babbler  with  thee  ;  'tis  Buoso,  who  left  the  pass  open  to  the  en- 
emy between  Piedmont  and  Parma  ;  and  near  him  is  the  traitor 
for  the   pope,  Beccaria  ;   and  Ganellone,  who  betrayed   Charle- 

*  Alessandro  and  Napoleon  degli  Alberti,  sons  of  Alberto,  lord  of  the  valley 
of  Faltcrona  in  Tuscany.  After  their  father's  death  they  tyrannised  over  the 
neighbouring  districts,  and  finally  had  a  mortal  quarrel.  The  name  of  Napo- 
leon used  to  be  so  rare  till  of  late  years,  even  in  Italian  books,  that  it  gives 
one  a  kind  of  interesting  surprise  to  meet  with  it. 

t  "  Se  roler  fu,  o  destine  o  fortuna, 
Non  so." 

What  does  tlio  Christian  reader  think  of  that? 

\  Latrando. 

§  Bocca  dogli  Abbati,  whose  soul  barks  like  a  dog,  occasioned  the  defeat  of 
the  Guelfs  at  Montaperto,  in  the  year  1260,  by  treacherously  cutting  oif  the 
hand  of  the  standard-bearer. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH  HELL.  81 

eigne  ;  and  Tribaldello,  who  opened  Faenza  to  the  enemy  at 
ght-time." 

The  pilgrims  went  on,  and  beheld  two  other  spirits  so  closely 
eked  up  together  in  one  hole  of  the  ice,  that  the  head  of  one 
as  right  over  the  other's  like  a  cowl ;  and  Dante,  to  his  horror, 
LW  that  the  upper  head  was  devouring  the  lower  with  all  the 
igerncss  of  a  man  who  is  famished.  The  poet  asked  what  could 
)ssibly  make  him  shew  a  hate  so  brutal  ;  adding,  that  if  there 
ere  any  ground  for  it,  he  would  tell  the  story  to  the  world.* 

The  sinner  raised  his  head  from  the  dire  repast,  and  after  wi- 
ng his  jaws  with  the  hair  of  it,  said,  "  You  ask  a  thing  which 

shakes  me  to  the  heart  to  think  of.  It  is  a  story  to  renew  all 
ly  misery.  But  since  it  will  produce  this  wretch  his  due  in- 
,my,  hear  it,  and  you  shall  see  me  speak  and  weep  at  the  same 
me.  How  thou  camest  hither  I  know  not ;  but  I  perceive  by 
ly  speech  that  thou  art  Florentine. 

"  Learn,  then,  that  I  was  the  Count  Ugolino,  and  this  man  was 
.uggieri  the  Archbishop.  How  I  trusted  him,  and  was  betrayed 
ito  prison,  there  is  no  need  to  relate ;  but  of  his  treatment  of 
le  there,  and  how  cruel  a  death  I  underwent,  hear ;  and  then 
idge  if  he  has  offended  me.         • 

"  I  had  been  imprisoned  with  my  children  a  long  time  in  the 
»wer  which  has  since  been  called  from  me  the  Tower  of  Fam- 
le  ;  and  many  a  new  moon  had  I  seen  through  the  hole  that 
jrved  us  for  a  window,  when  I  dreamt  a  dream  that  foreshadow, 
i  to  me  what  was  coming.  Methought  that  this  man  headed  a 
reat  chase  against  the  wolf,  in  the  mountains  between  Pisa  and 
(Ucca.  Among  the  foremost  in  his  party  were  Gualandi,  Sis- 
londi,  and  Lanfranchi,  and  the  hounds  were  thin  and  eager,  and 
igh-bred  ;  and  in  a  little  while  I  saw  the  hounds  fasten  on  the 
anks  of  the  wolf  and  the  wolfs  children,  and  tear  them.  At 
lat  moment  I  awoke  with  the  voices  of  my  own  children  in  my 
ars,  asking  for  bread.  Truly  cruel  must  thou  be,  if  thy  heart 
oes  not  ache  to  think  of  what  I  thought  then.  If  thou  feel  not 
5r  a  pang  like  that,  what  is  it  for  which  thou  art  accustomed  to 

*  This  is  the  famous  story  of  Ugolino,  who  betrayed  the  castles  of  Pisa  to 
lie  Florentines,  and  was  starved  with  his  children  in  the  Tower  of  Famine. 

7 


82  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


feel  ?  We  were  now  all  awake  ;  and  the  time  was  at  hand  when 
they  brought  us  bread,  and  we  had  all  dreamt  dreams  which 
made  us  anxious.  At  that  moment  I  heard  the  key  of  the  horri- 
ble tower  turn  in  the  lock  of  the  door  below,  and  fasten  it.  I 
looked  at  my  children,  and  said  not  a  word.  I  did  not  weep.  I 
made  a  strong  effort  upon  the  soul  within  me.  But  my  little 
Ansclm  said,  'Father,  why  do  you  look  so?  Is  any  thing  the 
matter  V  Nevertheless  I  did  not  weep,  nor  say  a  word  all  the 
day,  nor  the  night  that  followed.  In  the  morning  a  ray  of  light 
fell  upon  us  through  the  window  of  our  sad  prison,  and  I  beheld 
in  those  four  little  faces  the  likeness  of  my  own  face,  and  then  _ 
[  began  to  gnaw  my  hands  for  misery.  My  children,  thinking 
I  did  it  for  hunger,  raised  themselves  on  the  floor,  and  said,  '  Fa- 
ther, we  should  be  less  miserable  if  you  would  eat  our  own  flesh. 
[t  was  you  that  gave  it  us.  Take  it  again.'  Then  I  sat  still, 
in  order  not  to  make  them  unhappier :  and  that  day  and  the 
next  we  all  remained  without  speaking.  On  the  fourth  day, 
Gaddo  stretched  himself  at  my  feet,  and  said,  '  Father,  why 
won't  you  help  me  V  and  there  he  died.  And  as  surely  as 
thou  lookest  on  me,  so  surely  I  beheld  the  whole  three  die  in 
the  same  manner.  So  I  began  in  my  misery  to  grope  about 
in  the  dark  for  them,  for  I  had  become  blind ;  and  three  days  I 
kept  calling  on  them  by  name,  though  they  were  dead ;  till  fam- 
ine did  for  me  what  grief  had  been  unable  to  do." 

With  these  words,  the  miserable  man,  his  eyes  starting  from 
his  head,  seized  that  other  wretch  again  with  his  teeth,  and 
ground  them  against  the  skull  as  a  dog  does  with  a  bone. 

O  Pisa!  scandal  of  the  nations!  since  thy  neighbours  are  so 
slow  to  punish  thee,  may  the  very  islands  tear  themselves  up 
from  their  roots  in  the  sea,  and  come  and  block  up  the  mouth  of 
thy  river,  and  drown  every  soul  within  thee.  What  if  this  Count 
Ugolino  did,  as  report  says  he  did,  betray  thy  castles  to  the 
enemy?  his  children  had  not  betrayed  them ;  nor  ought  they  to 
have  been  put  to  an  agony  like  this.  Their  age  was  their  inno- 
cence ;  and  their  deaths  have  given  thee  the  infamy  of  a  second 
Thebes.* 

*  I  should  be  loath  to  disturb  the  inimitable  pathos  of  this  story,  if  there  did; 
not  seem  grounda  for  believing  that  the  poet  was  too  hasty  in  giving  credit  to 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HELL.  83 

The  pilgrims  passed  on,  and  beheld  other  traitors  frozen  up  in 
swathes  of  ice,  with  their  heads  upside  down.  Their  very  tears 
had  hindered  them  from  shedding  more ;  for  their  eyes  were  en- 
crusted with  the  first  they  shed,  so  as  to  be  enclosed  with  them  as 
in  a  crystal  visor,  which  forced  back  the  others  into  an  accumula- 
tion of  anguish.  One  of  the  sufferers  begged  Dante  to  relieve  him 
of  this  ice,  in  order  that  he  might  vent  a  little  of  the  burden 
which  it  repressed.  The  poet  said  he  would  do  so,  provided  he 
would  disclose  who  he  was.  The  man  said  he  was  the  friar  Al- 
berigo,  who  invited  some  of  his  brotherhood  to  a  banquet  in  order 
to  slay  them. 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Dante,  "  art  thou  no  longer,  then,  among 
the  living  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  appear  to  be,"  answered  the  friar ;  "  for  the  mo- 
ment any  one  commits  a  treachery  like  mine,  his  soul  gives  up 
his  body  to  a  demon,  who  thenceforward  inhabits  it  in  the  man's 
likeness.  Thou  knowest  Branca  Doria,  who  murdered  his  father- 
in-law,  Zanche  1  He  seems  to  be  walking  the  earth  still,  and  yet 
he  has  been  in  this  place  many  years."'*' 

"  Impossible  !"  cried  Dante  ;  "  Branca  Doria  is  still  alive  ;  he 
eats,  drinks,  and  sleeps,  like  any  other  man." 

*'  I  tell  thee,"  returned  the  friar,  "  that  the  soul  of  the  man  he 
slew  had  not  reached  that  lake  of  boiling  pitch  in  which  thou 
sawest  him,  ere  the  soul  of  his  slayer  was  in  this  place,  and  his 
body  occupied  by  a  demon  in  its  stead.  But  now  stretch  forth 
thy  hand,  and  relieve  mine  eyes." 

Dante  relieved  them  not.  Ill  manners,  he  said,  were  the  only 
courtesy  fit  for  such  a  wretch. f 


parts  of  it,  particularly  the  ages  of  some  of  his  fellow-prisoners,  and  the  guilt 
of  the  archbishop.     See  the  Appendix  to  this  volume. 

*  This  is  the  most  tremendous  lampoon,  as  far  as  I  am  aware,  in  the  whole 
circle  of  literature. 

t  "  Cortesia  fu  lui  esser  villano."  This  is  the  foulest  blot  which  Dante  has 
cast  on  his  own  character  in  all  his  poem  (short  of  the  cruelties  he  thinks  fit  to 
attribute  to  God).  It  is  argued  that  he  is  cruel  and  false,  out  of  hatred  to  cru- 
elty and  falsehood.  But  why  then  add  to  the  sum  of  both  ?  and  towards  a 
man,  too,  supposed  to  be  suffering  eternally?  It  is  idle  to  discern  in  such  bar- 
barous inconsistencies  any  thing  but  the  writer's  own  contributions  to  the  stock 


84  THE    ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


O  ye  Genoese  !  he  exclaims, — men  that  are  perversity  all 
over,  and  full  of  every  corruption  to  the  core,  vi^hy  are  ye  not 
swept  from  the  face  of  the  earth  ?  There  is  one  of  you  whom 
you  fancy  to  be  walking  about  like  other  men,  and  he  is  all  the 
while  in  the  lowest  pit  of  hell  ! 

"  Look  before  thee,"  said  Virgil,  as  they  advanced  :  "  behold 
the  banners  of  the  King  of  Hell." 

Dante  looked,  and  beheld  something  which  appeared  like  a 
windmill  in  motion,  as  seen  from  a  distance  on  a  dark  night.  A 
wind  of  inconceivable  sharpness  came  from  it. 

The  souls  of  those  who  had  been  traitors  to  their  benefactors 
were  here  frozen  up  in  depths  of  pellucid  ice,  where  they  were 
seen  in  a  variety  of  attitudes,  motionless ;  some  upright,  some 
downward,  some  bent  double,  head  to  foot. 

At  length  they  came  to  where  the  being  stood  who  was  once 
eminent  for  all  fair  seeming.*  This  was  the  figure  that  seemed 
tossing  its  arms  at  a  distance  like  a  windmill. 

"  Satan,"  whispered  Virgil ;  and  put  himself  in  front  of  Dante 
to  re-assure  him,  halting  him  at  the  same  time,  and  bidding  him 
summon  all  his  fortitude.  Dante  stood  benumbed,  though  con- 
scious ;  as  if  he  himself  had  been  turned  to  ice.  He  felt  neither 
alive  nor  dead. 

The  lord  of  the  dolorous  empire,  each  of  his  arms  as  big  as  a 
giant,  stood  in  the  ice  half-way  up  his  breast.     He  had  one  head, 

of  them.     The  utmost  credit  for  right  feeling  is  not  to  be  given  on  every  occa- 
sion to  a  man  who  refuses  it  to  every  one  else. 

*  "  La  creatura  ch'  ebbe  il  bel  sembiante." 

This  is  touching  ;  but  the  reader  may  as  well  be  prepared  for  a  total  failure  in 
Dante's  couce|)tion  of  Satan,  especially  the  Englis'i  reader,  accustomed  to  the 
sublimity  of  Milloirs.  Griiuting  that  the  Roman  Catholic  poet  intended  to 
honour  the  ftiUen  ungcl  with  no  sublin)ity,  but  to  render  him  an  object  of  mere 
hate  and  dread,  ho  has  overdone  and  degraded  the  picture  into  caricature.  A 
great  stupid  being,  stuck  up  in  ice,  with  three  faces,  one  of  which  is  yellow, 
and  three  mouilis,  each  eating  a  sinner,  one  of  those  sinners  being  Brutus, — is 
an  object  for  derision  ;  and  the  way  in  which  ho  eats  these,  his  everlasting 
bonnes-houcliLS,  divides  derision  with  disgust.  The  passage  must  be  given, 
otherwise  the  abstract  of  the  poem  would  be  incomplete ;  but  I  cannot  help 
thinking  it  the  worst  anti-climax  ever  fallen  into  by  a  great  poet. 


tTHE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HELL.  85 


but  three  faces ;  the  middle,  vermilion ;  the  one  over  the  right 
shoulder  a  pale  yellow ;  the  other  black.  His  sails  of  wings, 
huger  than  ever  were  beheld  at  sea,  were  in  shape  and  texture 
those  of  a  bat ;  and  with  these  he  constantly  flapped,  so  as  to 
send  forth  the  wind  that  froze  the  depths  of  Tartarus.  From  his 
six  eyes  the  tears  ran  down,  mingling  at  his  three  chins  with 
bloody  foam ;  for  at  every  mouth  he  crushed  a  sinner  with  his 
teeth,  as  substances  are  broken  up  by  an  engine.  The  middle 
sinner  was  the  worst  punished,  for  he  was  at  once  broken  and 
flayed,  and  his  head  and  trunk  were  inside  the  mouth.  It  was 
Judas  Iscariot.  Of  the  other  two,  whose  heads  were  hanging 
out,  one  was  Brutus,  and  the  other  Cassius.  Cassius  was  very 
large-limbed.  Brutus  writhed  with  agony,  but  uttered  not  a 
word.* 

"  Night  has  returned,"  said  Virgil,  "  and  all  has  been  seen. 
It  is  time  to  depart  onward." 

Dante  then,  at  his  bidding,  clasped,  as  Virgil  did,  the  huge  in- 
attentive being  round  the  neck  ;  and  watching  their  opportunity, 
as  the  wings  opened  and  shut,  they  slipped  round  it,  and  so  down 
his  shaggy  and  frozen  sides,  from  pile  to  pile,  clutching  it  as  they 
went ;  till  suddenly,  with  the  greatest  labour  and  pain,  they  were 
compelled  to  turn  themselves  upside  down,  as  it  seemed,  but  in 
reality  to  regain  their  proper  footing ;  for  they  had  passed  the 
centre  of  gravity,  and  become  Antipodes.  Then  looking  down  at 
what  lately  was  upward,  they  saw  Lucifer  with  his  feet  towards 
them ;  and  so  taking  their  departure,  ascended  a  gloomy  vault, 

*  This  silence  is,  at  all  events,  a  compliment  to  Brutus,  especially  from  a 
man  like  Dante,  and  the  more  because  it  is  extorted.  Dante,  no  doubt,  hated 
all  treachery,  particularly  treachery  to  the  leader  of  his  beloved  Roman  em- 
perors ;  forgetting  three  things  ;  first,  that  Caesar  was  guilty  of  treachery  him- 
self to  the  Roman  people  ;  second,  that  he,  Dante,  has  put  Curio  in  hell  for  ad- 
vising Caesar  to  cross  the  Rubicon,  though  he  has  put  the  crosser  amono-  the 
good  Pagans ;  and  third,  that  Brutus  was  educated  in  the  belief  that  the  pun- 
ishment of  such  treachery  as  Ctesar's  by  assassination  was  one  of  the  first  of 
duties.  How  differently  has  Shakspeare,  himself  an  aristocratic  rather  than 
democratic  poet,  and  full  of  just  doubt  of  the  motives  of  assassins  in  general, 
treated  the  error  of  the  thoughtful,  conscientious,  Platonic  philosopher  I 


86  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


till  at  a  distance,  through  an  opening  above  their  heads,  they  be- 
held the  loveliness  of  the  stars.* 

*  At  the  close  of  this  medley  of  genius,  pathos,  absurdity,  sublimity,  horror, 
and  revoltingness,  it  is  impossible  for  any  reflecting  heart  to  avoid  asking,  Cui 
bono  ?  What  is  the  good  of  it  to  the  poor  wretches,  if  we  are  to  suppose  it  true  ? 
and  what  to  the  world — except,  indeed,  as  a  poetic  study  and  a  warning  against 
degrading  notions  of  God — if  we  are  to  take  it  simply  as  a  fiction  ?  Theology, 
disdaining  both  questions,  has  an  answer  confessedly  incomprehensible.  Hu- 
manity replies:  Assume  not  premises  for  which  you  have  worse  than  no  proofs. 


II. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  PURGATORY. 


^rgttmcnt. 

Purgatory,  in  the  system  of  Dante,  is  a  mountain  at  the  Antipodes,  on  the 
top  of  which  is  the  Terrestrial  Paradise,  once  the  seat  of  Adam  and  Eve.  It 
forms  the  principal  part  of  an  island  in  a  sea,  and  possesses  a  pure  air.  Its 
lowest  region,  with  one  or  two  exceptions  of  redeemed  Pagans,  is  occupied  by 
Excommunicated  Penitents  and  by  Delayers  of  Penitence,  all  of  whom  are 
compelled  to  lose  time  before  their  atonement  commences.  The  other  and 
greater  portion  of  the  ascent  is  divided  into  circles  or  plains,  in  which  are  expi- 
ated the  Seven  Deadly  Sins.  The  Poet  ascends  from  circle  to  circle  with 
Virgil  and  Statins,  and  is  met  in  a  forest  on  the  top  by  the  spirit  of  Beatrice, 
who  transports  him  to  Heaven. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH   PURGATORY. 


When  the  pilgrims  emerged  from  the  opening  through  which 
they  beheld  the  stars,  they  found  themselves  in  a  scene  which  en- 
chanted them  with  hope  and  joy.  It  was  dawn  :  a  sweet  pure 
air  came  on  their  faces ;  and  they  beheld  a  sky  of  the  loveliest 
oriental  sapphire,  whose  colour  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole 
serene  hollow  from  earth  to  heaven.  The  beautiful  planet  which 
encourages  loving  thoughts  made  all  the  orient  laugh,  obscuring 
by  its  very  radiance  the  stars  in  its  train  ;  and  among  those 
which  were  still  lingering  and  sparkling  in  the  southern  horizon, 
Dante  saw  four  in  the  shape  of  a  cross,  never  beheld  by  man 
since  they  gladdened  the  eyes  of  our  first  parents.  Heaven  seem- 
ed to  rejoice  in  their  possession.  O  widowed  northern  pole  !  be- 
reaved art  thou,  indeed,  since  thou  canst  not  gaze  upon  them  !* 

*  "  Dolce  color  d'  oriental  zaffiro 

Che  s'  accoglieva  nel  sereno  aspetto 
De  1'  aer  puro  infino  al  primo  giro, 

A  gli  occhi  miei  ricomincif)  diletto, 
Tosto  ch'  io  usci'  Tuor  de  1'  aura  morta 
Che  m'  avea  contristati  gli  occhi  e  '1  petto. 

Lo  bel  pianeta,  ch'  ad  amar  conforta, 
Faceva  tutto  rider  1'  oriente, 
Velando  i  Pesci,  ch'  erano  in  sua  scoria. 

Io  mi  volsi  a  man  destra,  e  posi  mente 
AH'  altro  polo,  e  vidi  quattro  stelle 
Non  viste  mai,  fuor  ch'  a  la  prima  gente  ; 

(ioder  pareva  '1  ciel  di  lor  fiammelle. 
O  settentrional  vedovo  sito, 
Poi  che  private  sei  di  mirar  quelle  1" 


90  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS. 


The  poet  turned  to  look  at  the  north  where  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  stars  that  no  longer  appeared,  and  beheld,  at  his  side, 
an  old  man,  who  struck  his  beholder  with  a  veneration  like  that 
of  a  son  for  his  father.  He  had  grey  hairs,  and  a  long  beard 
which  parted  in  two  down  his  bosom  ;   and  the  four  southern  stars 

The  sweetest  oriental  sapphire  blue, 
Which  the  whole  air  in  its  pure  bosom  had, 
Greeted  mine  eyes,  far  as  the  heavens  withdrew  ; 

So  that  again  they  felt  assured  and  glad, 
Soon  as  they  issued  forth  from  the  dead  air, 
Where  every  sight  and  thought  had  made  them  sad. 

The  beauteous  star,  which  lets  no  love  despair, 
Made  all  the  orient  laugh  with  loveliness. 
Veiling  the  Fish  that  glimmered  in  its  hair. 

I  turned  me  to  the  right  to  gaze  and  bless. 
And  saw  four  more,  never  of  living  wight 
Beheld,  since  Adam  brought  us  our  distress  ; 

Heaven  seemed  rejoicing  in  their  happy  light. 
O  widowed  northern  pole,  bereaved  indeed. 
Since  thou  heist  had  no  power  to  see  that  sight ! 

Readers  who  may  have  gone  thus  far  with  the  "  Italian  Pilgrim's  Progress," 
will  allow  me  to  congratulate  them  on  arriving  at  this  lovely  scene,  one  of  the 
most  admired  in  the  poem. 

This  is  one  of  the  passages  which  make  the  religious  admirers  of  Dante  in- 
clined to  pronounce  him  divinely  inspired ;  for  how  could  he  otherwise  have 
seen  stars,  they  eisk  us,  which  were  not  discovered  till  after  his  time,  and 
which  compose  the  constellation  of  the  Cross  ?  But  other  commentators  are 
of  opinion,  that  the  Cross,  though  not  so  named  till  subsequently  (and  Dante, 
we  see,  gives  no  prophetic  hint  about  the  name),  had  been  seen  probably  by 
Btray  navigators.  An  Arabian  globe  is  even  mentioned  by  M.  Artaud  (see 
Cary),  in  which  the  Southern  Cross  is  set  down.  Mr.  Cary,  in  his  note  on  the 
passage,  refers  to  Seneca's  prediction  of  the  discovery  of  America  ;  most  likely 
suggested  by  similar  information.  "  But  whatever,"  he  adds,  *'  may  be  thought 
of  this,  it  is  certain  that  the  four  stars  are  here  symbolical  of  the  four  cardinal 
virtues ;"  and  he  refers  to  canto  xxxi.,  where  those  virtues  are  retrospectively 
associated  with  these  stars.  The  symbol,  however,  is  not  necessary.  Dante 
was  a  very  curious  inquirer  on  all  subjects,  and  evidently  acquainted  with  ships 
and  seamen  as  well  as  geography  ;  and  his  imagination  would  eagerly  have 
seized  a  magnificent  novelty  like  this,  and  used  it  the  first  opportunity.  Co- 
lumbus's discovery,  as  the  reader  will  see,  was  anticipated  by  Pulci. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH   PURGATORY.  91 


beamed  on  his  flice  with  such  lustre,  that  his  aspect  was  as  radi- 
ant as  if  he  had  stood  in  the  sun. 

"  Who  are  ye  ?"  said  the  old  man,  "  that  have  escaped  from 
the  dreadful  prison-house  ?  Can  the  laws  of  the  abyss  be  viola- 
ted ?  Or  has  heaven  changed  its  mind,  that  thus  ye  are  allowed 
to  come  from  the  regions  of  condemnation  into  mine  ?" 

It  was  the  spirit  of  Cato  of  Utica,  the  warder  of  the  ascent  of 
purgatory. 

The  Roman  poet  explained  to  his  countryman  who  they  were, 
and  how  Dante  was  under  heavenly  protection  ;  and  then  he 
prayed  leave  of  passage  of  him  by  the  love  he  bore  to  the  chaste 
eyes  of  his  Marcia,  who  sent  him  a  message  from  the  Pagan  cir- 
cle, hoping  that  he  would  still  own  her. 

Cato  replied,  that  although  he  was  so  fond  of  Marcia  while  on 
earth  that  he  could  deny  her  nothing,  he  had  ceased,  in  obedience 
to  new  laws,  to  have  any  affection  for  her,  now  that  she  dwelt  be- 
yond the  evil  river  ;  but  as  the  pilgrim,  his  companion,  was  un- 
der heavenly  protection,  he  would  of  course  do  what  he  desired.* 
He  then  desired  him  to  gird  his  companion  with  one  of  the  sim- 
plest and  completest  rushes  he  would  see  by  the  water's  side,  and 
to  wash  the  stain  of  the  lower  world  out  of  his  face,  and  so  take 
their  journey  up  the  mountain  before  them,  by  a  path  which  the 
rising  sun  would  disclose.  And  with  these  words  he  disap- 
peared.! 

The  pilgrims  passed  on,  with  the  eagerness  of  one  who  thinks 
every  step  in  vain  till  he  finds  the  path  he  has  lost.  The  full 
dawn  by  this  time  had  arisen,  and  they  saw  the  trembling  of  the 


*  Generous  and  disinterested  1 — Cato,  the  republican  enemy  of  Cassar,  and 
committer  of  suicide,  is  not  luckily  chosen  for  his  present  office  by  the  poet, 
who  has  put  Brutus  into  the  devil's  mouth  in  spite  of  his  agreeing  with  Cato, 
and  the  suicide  Piero  delle  Vigne  into  hell  in  spite  of  his  virtues.  But  Dante 
thought  Cato's  austere  manners  like  his  own. 

t  The  girding  with  the  rush  (giunco  schietto)  is  supposed  by  the  commen- 
tators to  be  an  injunction  of  simplicity  and  patience.  Perhaps  it  is  to  enjoin 
sincerity  ;  especially  as  the  region  of  expiation  has  now  been  entered,  and  sin- 
cerity is  the  first  step  to  repentance.  It  will  be  recollected  that  Dante's  for- 
mer girdle,  the  cord  of  the  Franciscan  friars,  has  been  left  in  the  hands  of 
Fraud. 


92  THE  ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 

sea  in  the  distance.*  Virgil  tlien  dipped  his  hands  into  a  spot  of 
dewy  grass,  where  the  sun  had  least  affected  it,  and  with  the 
moisture  bathed  the  face  of  Dante,  who  held  it  out  to  him,  suffused 
witJi  tears  ;f  and  then  they  went  on  till  they  came  to  a  solitary 
shore,  whence  no  voyager  had  ever  returned,  and  there  the  loins 
of  the  Florentine  were  girt  with  the  rush. 

On  this  shore  they  were  standing  in  doubt  how  to  proceed, — 
moving  onward,  as  it  were,  in  mind,  while  yet  their  feet  were 
staying, — when  they  beheld  a  light  over  the  water  at  a  distance, 
rayless  at  first  as  the  planet  Mars  when  he  looks  redly  out  of  the 
horizon  through  a  fog,  but  speedily  growing  brighter  and  brighter 
with  amazing  swiftness.  Dante  had  but  turned  for  an  instant  to 
ask  his  guide  what  it  was,  when,  on  looking  again,  it  had  grown 
far  brighter.  Two  splendid  phenomena,  he  knew  not  what,  then 
developed  themselves  from  it  on  either  side  ;  and,  by  degrees, 
another  below  it.  The  two  splendours  quickly  turned  out  to  be 
wings ;  and  Virgil,  who  had  hitherto  watched  its  coming  in  si- 
lence, cried  out,  "  Down,  down, — on  thy  knees !  It  is  God's 
angel.  Clasp  thine  hands.  Now  thou  shalt  behold  operancy 
indeed.  Lo,  how  he  needs  neither  sail  nor  oar,  coming  all  this 
way  with  nothing  but  his  wings !  Lo,  how  he  holds  them  aloft, 
using  the  air  with  them  at  his  will,  and  knowing  they  can  never 
be  weary." 

The  "  divine  bird  "  grew  brighter  and  brighter  as  he  came,  so 
that  the  eye  at  last  could  not  sustain  the  lustre ;  and  Dante 
turned  his  to  the  ground.     A  boat  then  rushed  to  shore  which  the 

*  "  L'  alba  vinceva  I'  ora  mattutina 
Che  fuggia  'nnanzi,  si  che  di  lontano 
Conobbi  il  tremolar  de  la  marina." 

The  lingering  shadows  now  began  to  flee 
Before  the  whitening  dawn,  so  that  mine  eyes 
Discerned  far  ofF  the  trembling  of  the  sea. 

*'  Conobbi  il  tremolar  de  la  marina" 
is  a  beautiful  verse,  both  for  the  picture  and  the  sound. 

t  This  evidence  of  humility  and  gratitude  on  the  part  of  Dante  would  be 
very  affecting,  if  we  could  forget  all  the  pride  and  passion  he  has  been  shew- 
ing elsewhere,  and  the  torments  in  which  he  has  left  his  fellow-creatures.  With 
these  recollections  upon  us,  it  looks  like  an  overweening  piece  of  self-congratu- 
lation at  other  people's  expense. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH   PURGATORY.  93 


angel  had  brought  with  him,  so  light  that  it  drew  not  a  drop  of 
water.  The  celestial  pilot  stood  at  the  helm,  with  bliss  written  in 
his  face ;  and  a  hundred  spirits  were  seen  within  the  boat,  who, 
lifting  up  their  voices,  sang  the  psalm  beginning  "  When  Israel 
came  out  of  Egypt."  At  the  close  of  the  psalm,  the  angel  bless- 
ed them  with  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  they  all  leaped  to  shore  ; 
upon  which  he  turned  round,  and  departed  as  swiftly  as  he  came. 
The  new-comers,  after  gazing  about  them  for  a  while,  in  the 
manner  of  those  who  are  astonished  to  see  new  sights,  inquired  of 
Virgil  and  his  companion  the  best  May  to  the  mountain.  Virgil 
explained  who  they  were  ;  and  the  spirits,  pale  with  astonishment 
at  beholding  in  Dante  a  living  and  breathing  man,  crowded  about 
him,  in  spite  of  their  anxiety  to  shorten  the  period  of  their  trials. 
One  of  them  came  darting  out  of  the  press  to  embrace  him,  in  a 
manner  so  affectionate  as  to  move  the  poet  to  return  his  warmth ; 
but  his  arms  again  and  as^ain  found  themselves  crossed  on  his 
own  bosom,  having  encircled  nothing.  The  shadow,  smiling  at 
the  astonishment  in  the  other's  face,  drev/  back ;  and  Dante 
hastened  as  much  forward  to  shew  his  zeal  in  the  greeting,  when 
the  spirit  in  a  sweet  voice  recommended  him  to  desist.  The  Flor- 
entine then  knew  who  it  was, — Casella,  a  musician,  to  whom  he 
had  been  much  attached.  After  mutual  explanations  as  to  their 
meeting,  Dante  requested  his  friend,  if  no  ordinance  opposed  it, 
to  refresh  his  spirit  awhile  with  one  of  the  tender  airs  that  used  to 
charm  away  all  his  troubles  on  earth.  Casella  immediately  began 
one  of  his  friend's  own  productions,  commencing  with  the  words, 

"  Love,  tliat  delights  to  talk  unto  my  soul 
Of  all  the  wonders  of  my  lady's  nature." 

And  he  sang  it  so  beautifully,  that  the  sweetness  rang  within 
the  poet's  heart  while  recording  the  circumstance.  The  other 
spirits  listened  with  such  attention,  that  they  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten the  very  purpose  of  their  coming ;  when  suddenly  the 
voice  of  Cato  was  heard,  sternly  rebuking  their  delay  ;  and  the 
whole  party  speeded  in  trepidation  towards  the  mountain.* 

*  "  Amor  che  ne  la  mente  mi  ragiona 
De  la  mia  donna  disiosamente," 
is  the  beginning  of  the  ode  sung  by  Dante's  friend.    The  incident  is  beautifully 


94  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


The  two  pilgrims,  who  had  at  first  hastened  with  the  others,  in 
a  little  while  slackened  their  steps  ;  and  Dante  found  that  his 
body  projected  a  shadow,  while  the  form  of  Virgil  had  none. 
When  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  they  were  joined  by  a 
second  party  of  spirits,  of  whom  Virgil  inquired  the  way  up  it. 
One  of  the  spirits,  of  a  noble  aspect,  but  with  a  gaping  wound  in 
his  forehead,  stepped  forth,  and  asked  Dante  if  he  remembered 
him.  The  poet  humbly  answering  in  the  negative,  the  stranger 
disclosed  a  second  wound,  that  was  in  his  bosom  ;  and  then,  with 
a  smile,  announced  himself  as  Manfredi,  king  of  Naples,  who  was 
slain  in  battle  against  Charles  of  Anjou,  and  died  excommuni- 
cated. iVIanfredi  gave  Dante  a  message  to  his  daughter  Co- 
stanza,  queen  of  Arragon,  begging  her  to  shorten  the  consequen- 
ces of  the  excommunication  by  her  prayers ;  since  he,  like  the 
rest  of  the  party  with  him,  though  repenting  of  his  contumacy 
against  the  church,  would  have  to  wander  on  the  outskirts  of 
Purgatory  three  times  as  long  as  the  presumption  had  lasted,  un- 
less relieved  by  such  petitions  from  the  living.* 

Dante  went  on,  with  his  thoughts  so  full  of  this  request,  that 
he  did  not  perceive  he  had  arrived  at  the  path  which  Virgil  asked 
for,  till  the  wandering  spirits  called  out  to  them  to  say  so.     The 

introduced  ;  and  Casella's  being  made  to  select  a  production  from  the  pen  of 
the  man  who  asks  him  to  sing,  very  deUcately  implies  a  graceful  cordiality  in 
the  musician's  character. 

Milton  alludes  to  the  passage  in  his  sonnet  to  Henry  Lawes 

"  Thou  honour'st  verse,  and  verse  must  lend  her  wing 
To  honour  thee,  the  priest  of  Phoebus'  quire. 
That  tun'st  their  happiest  lines  in  hymn  or  story. 
Dante  shall  give  Fame  leave  to  set  thee  higher 
Than  his  Casella,  whom  he  wooed  to  sing, 
Met  in  the  milder  shades  of  Purgatory." 

*  Manfredi  was  the  natnral  son  of  the  Emperor  Frederick  the  Second.  "  He 
was  lively  and  agreeable  in  his  manners,"  observes  Mr.  Gary,"  and  delighted  in 
poetry,  music,  and  dancing.  But  he  was  luxurious  and  ambitious,  void  of  re- 
ligion, and  in  his  philosophy  an  epicurean."  Translation  of  Dante,  Smith's 
edition,  p.  77.  Thus  King  Manfredi  ought  to  have  been  in  a  red-hot  tomb, 
roasting  for  ever  with  Epicurus  himself,  and  with  the  father  of  the  poet's  be- 
loved friend,  Guido  Cavalcante:  but  he  was  the  son  of  an  emperor,  and  a  foe 
to  the  house  of  Anjou  ;  so  Dante  gives  him  a  passport  to  heaven.  There  ia 
no  ground  whatever  for  the  repentance  assumed  in  the  text. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   PURGATORY.  95 

pilgrims  then,  witli  great  difficulty,  began  to  ascend  through  an 
extremely  narrow  passage  ;  and  Virgil,  after  explaining  to  Dante 
how  it  was  that  in  this  antipodal  region  his  eastward  face  beheld 
the  sun  in  the  north  instead  of  the  south,  was  encouraging  him  to 
proceed  manfully  in  the  hope  of  finding  the  path  easier  by  de- 
grees, and  of  reposing  at  the  end  of  it,  when  they  heard  a  voice 
observing,  that  they  would  most  likely  find  it  expedient  to  repose 
a  little  sooner.  The  pilgrims  looked  about  them,  and  observed 
close  at  hand  a  crag  of  a  rock,  in  the  shade  of  which  some  spir- 
its were  standing,  as  men  stand  idly  at  noon.  Another  was  sit- 
ting down,  as  if  tired  out,  with  his  arms  about  his  knees,  and  his 
face  bent  down  between  them.* 

"  Dearest  master !"  exclaimed  Dante  to  his  guide,  "  what 
thinkest  thou  of  a  croucher  like  this,  for  manful  journeying  ? 
Verily  he  seems  to  have  been  twin-born  with  Idleness  herself." 

The  croucher,  lifting  up  his  eyes  at  these  words,  looked  hard 
at  Dante,  and  said,  "Since  thou  art  so  stout,  push  on." 

Dante  then  saw  it  was  Belacqua,  a  pleasant  acquaintance  of 
his,  famous  for  his  indolence. 

"That  was  a  good  lesson,"  said  Belacqua,  "  that  was  given 
thee  just  now  in  astronomy." 

The  poet  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  manner  in  which  his 
acquaintance  uttered  these  words,  it  was  so  like  his  ways  of  oM. 
Belacqua  pretended,  even  in  another  world,  that  it  was  of  no  use 
to  make  haste,  since  the  angel  had  prohibited  his  going  higher  up 
the  mountain.  He  and  his  companions  had  to  walk  round  the 
foot  of  it  as  many  years  as  they  had  delayed  repenting  ;  unless, 
as  in  the  case  of  Manfredi,  their  time  was  shortened  by  the  pray- 
ers of  good  people. 

A  little  further  on,  the  pilgrims  encountered  the  spirits  of  such 
Delayers  of  Penitence  as,  having  died  violent  deaths,  repented  at 
the  last  moment.  One  of  them,  Buonconte  da  Montefeltro,  who 
died  in  battle,  and  whose  body  could  not  be  found,  described 
how  the  devil,  having  been  hindered  from  seizing  him  by  the 
shedding  of  a  single  tear,  had  raised  in  his  fury  a  tremendous 

*  The  unexpected  bit  of  comedy  here  ensuing  is  very  remarkable  and  pleas- 
ant.    Belacqua,  according  to  an  old  commentator,  was  a  musician. 


96  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


tempest,  which  sent  the  body  down  the  river  Arno,  and  buried  it 

in  the  mud.* 

Another  spirit,  a  female,  said  to  Dante,  "  Ah !  when  thou  re- 
turnest  to  earth,  and  shalt  have  rested  from  thy  long  journey,  re- 
member me, — Pia.  Sienna  gave  me  life  ;  the  Marshes  took  it 
from  me.  This  he  knows,  who  put  on  my  finger  the  wedding, 
ring.""}" 

*  Buonconte  was  the  son  of  that  Guido  da  Montefeltro,  whose  soul  we  have 
seen  carried  ofF  from  St.  Francis  by  a  devil,  for  having  violated  the  conditions 
of  penitence.  It  is  cuiious  that  both  father  and  son  should  have  been  contested 
for  in  this  manner. 

t  This  is  the  most  affecting  and  comprehensive  of  all  brief  stories. 

"  Deh  quando  tu  sarai  tomato  al  mondo, 
E  riposato  de  la  lunga  via, 
Seguit6  'I  terzo  spirito  al  secondo, 

Ricorditi  di  me  che  son  la  Pia  : 
Siena  mi  f6  ;  disfecemi  Maremma  ; 
Salsi  colui  che  'nnanellata  pria 

Disposando  m'  avea  con  la  sua  gemma." 

Ah,  when  thou  findest  thee  again  on  earth 
(Said  then  a  female  soul),  remember  me — 
Pia.     Sienna  was  my  place  of  birth, 

The  Marshes  of  my  death.     This  knoweth  he, 
Who  placed  upon  my  hand  the  spousal  ring. 

"  Nello  della  Pietra,"  says  M.  Beyle,  in  his  work  entitled  De  V Amour,  "  ob 
tained  in  marriage  the  hand  of  Madonna  Pia,  sole  heiress  of  the  Ptolomei,  thr 
richest  and  most  noble  family  of  Sienna.  Her  beauty,  which  was  the  admira 
tion  of  all  Tuscany,  gave  rise  to  a  jealousy  in  the  breast  of  her  husband,  that 
envenomed  by  wrong  reports  and  suspicions  continually  reviving,  led  to  a  fright- 
ful catastrophe.  It  is  not  easy  to  determine  at  this  day  if  his  wife  was  altogethei 
innocent ;  but  Dante  has  represented  her  as  such.  Her  husband  carried  her 
with  him  into  the  marshes  of  Volterra,  celebrated  then,  as  now,  for  the  pestifer- 
ous cfTocts  of  the  air.  Never  would  he  tell  his  wife  the  reason  of  her  banish- 
ment into  so  dangerous  a  place.  His  pride  did  not  deign  to  pronounce  either 
complaint  or  accusation.  He  lived  with  her  alone,  in  a  deserted  tower,  of  which 
I  have  been  to  see  the  ruins  on  the  sea-shore  ;  he  never  broke  his  disdainful  si- 
lence, never  replied  to  the  questions  of  his  youthful  bride,  never  listened  to  her 
entreaties.  Ho  waited,  unmoved  by  her,  for  the  air  to  produce  its  fatal  effects. 
The  vapours  of  this  unwholesome  swamp  were  not  long  in  tarnishing  features 
the  most  beautiful,  they  say,  that  in  that  ago  had  appeared  upon  earth.     In  a 


THE  JOURNEV  THROUGH    PURGATORY.  97 


The  majority  of  this  party  were  so  importunate  with  the  Flor- 
entine to  procure  them  the  prayers  of  their  friends,  that  he  had 
as  much  ditlicuhy  to  get  away,  as  a  winner  at  dice  has  to  free 
himself  from  the  mercenary  congratulations  of  the  by-standers. 
On  resuming  their  way,  Dante  quoted  to  Virgil  a  passage  in  the 
^neid,  decrying  the  utility  of  prayer,  and  begged  him  to  explain 
how  it  was  to  be  reconciled  with  what  they  had  just  heard.  Vir- 
gil  advised  him  to  wait  for  the  explanation  till  he  saw  Beatrice, 
whom,  he  now  said,  he  should  meet  at  the  top  of  the  mountain. 
Dante,  at  this  information,  expressed  a  desire  to  hasten  their  prog- 
ress ;  and  Virgil,  seeing  a  spirit  looking  towards  them  as  they 
advanced,  requested  him  to  acquaint  them  with  the  shortest  road. 

The  spirit,  maintaining  a  lofty  and  reserved  aspect,  was  as  si- 
lent as  if  he  had  not  heard  the  request ;  intimating  by  his  man- 
ner that  they  might  as  well  proceed  without  repeating  it,  and 
eyeing  them  like  a  lion  on  the  watch.  Virgil,  however,  went  up 
to  him,  and  gently  urged  it ;  but  the  only  reply  was  a  question 
as  to  who  they  were  and  of  what  country.  The  Latin  poet  be- 
ginning to  answer  him,  had  scarcely  mentioned  the  word  "  Man- 
tua,'*' when  the  stranger  went  as  eagerly  up  to  his  interrogator 
as  the  latter  had  done  to  him,  and  said,  "  Mantua  !  My  own 
country!  My  name  is  Sordello."  And  the  compatriots  em- 
braced. 

O  degenerate  Italy  !  exclaims  Dante ;  land  without  affections, 
without  principle,  without  faith  in  any  one  good  thing !  here  was 
a  man  who  could  not  hear  the  sweet  sound  of  a  fellow-citizen's 
voice  without  feeling  his  heart  gush  towards  him,  and  there  are 
no  people  now  in  any  one  of  thy  towns  that  do  not  hate  and  tor- 
ment one  another. 

Sordello,  in  another  tone,  now  exclaimed,  "  But  who  are  ye  ?" 

Virgil  disclosed  himself,  and  Sordello  fell  at  his  feet.* 

few  months  she  died.  Some  chroniclers  of  those  remote  times  report  that 
Nello  employed  the  dagger  to  hasten  her  end :  she  died  in  the  marshes 
n  some  horrible  manner  ;  but  the  mode  of  her  death  remained  a  mystery, 
jven  to  her  contemporaries.  Nello  della  Pietra  survived,  to  pass  the  rest  of  his 
lays  in  a  silence  which  weis  never  broken."  Hazlitt's  Journey  throvg/i  France 
ind  Italy,  p.  315. 
*  Sordello  was  a  famous  Provencal  poet ;  with  whose  writings  the  world 

8 


98  THE  ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


Sordello  now  undertook  to  accompany  the  great  Roman  poet 
and  his  friend  to  a  certain  distance  on  their  ascent  towards  the 
penal  quarters  of  the  mountain  ;  but  as  evening  was  drawing 
nigh,  and  the  ascent  could  not  be  made  properly  in  the  dark,  he 
proposed  that  they  should  await  the  dawning  of  the  next  day  in 
a  recess  that  overlooked  a  flowery  hollow.  The  hollow  was  a 
lovely  spot  of  ground,  enamelled  with  flowers  that  surpassed  the 
cxqnisitcst  dyes,  and  green  with  a  grass  brighter  than  emeralds 
newly  broken.*  There  rose  from  it  also  a  fragrance  of  a  thou- 
sand different  kinds  of  sweetness,  all  mingled  into  one  that  was 
new  and  indescribable  ;  and  with  the  fragrance  there  ascended 
the  chant  of  the  prayer  beginning,  "  Hail,  Queen  of  Heaven, "f 
which  was  sung  by  a  multitude  of  souls  that  appeared  sitting  on 
the  flowery  sward. 

Virgil  pointed  them  out.  They  were  penitent  delayers  of  pen- 
itence, of  sovereign  rank.  Among  them,  however,  were  spirits 
who  sat  mute ;  one  of  whom  was  the  Emperor  Rodolph,  who 
ought  to  have  attended  better  to  Italy,  the  garden  of  the  empire ; 
and  another,  Ottocar,  king  of  Bohemia,  his  enemy,  who  now  com- 
forted him  ;  and  another,  with  a  small  nose,:j:  Philip  the  Third  of 
France,  who  died  a  fugitive,  shedding  the  leaves  of  the  lily  ;  he 
sat  beating  his  breast ;  and  with  him  was  Henry  the  Third  of 
Navarre,  sighing  with  his  cheek  on  his  hand.  One  was  the 
father,  and  one  the  father-in-law  of  Philip  the  Handsome,  the  bane 
of  France ;  and  it  was  on  account  of  his  unworthiness  they 
grieved. 

But  among  the  singers  Virgil  pointed  out  the  strong-limbed 
King  of  Arragon,  Pedro  ;  and  Charles,  king  of  Naples,  with  his 
masculine  nose  (these  two  were  singing  together)  ;   and  Henry 

has  but  lately  been  made  acquainted  through  the  researches  of  M.  Raynouard, 
in  his  Choix  des  Poesies  des  Troubadours,  &c. 

*  "  Fresco  smeraldo  in  1'  ora  che  si  fiacca." 
An  exquisite  image  of  newness  and  brilliancy. 

t  "  Salve,  Regina :"  the  beginning  of  a  Roman-Catholic  chant  to  the  Virgin. 

X  "  With  nose  doprest,"  says  Mr.  Cary.  But  Dante  says,  literally,  "small 
nose," — uaseito.  So,  further  on,  he  says,  "  masculine  nose," — maschio  naso. 
Ho  meant  to  imply  the  greater  or  less  determination  of  character,  which  the 
fiize  of  that  feature  is  suppo.'^ed  to  indicate. 


Ill 


THE  JOURNEY    THROUGH    PURGATORY.  99 


le  Third  of  England,  the  king  of  the  simple  life,  sitting  by  him- 
slf  ;*  and  below  these,  but  with  his  eyes  in  heaven,  Guglielmo 
larquis  of  Montferrat. 

It  was  now  the  hour  when  men  at  sea  think  longingly  of  home, 
nd  feel  their  hearts  melt  within  them  to  remember  the  day  on 
•hich  they  bade  adieu  to  beloved  friends  ;  and  now,  too,  was  the 
our  when  the  pilgrim,  new  to  his  journey,  is  thrilled  with  the 
ke  tenderness,  when  he  hears  the  vesper-bell  in  the  distance, 
•hich  seems  to  mourn  for  the  expiring  day.|  At  this  hour  of 
le  coming  darkness,  Dante  beheld  one  of  the  spirits  in  the  dow- 
ry hollow  arise,  and  after  giving  a  signal  to  the  others  to  do  as 

*  An  English  reader  is  surprised  to  find  here  a  sovereign  for  whom  he  has 
;en  taught  to  entertain  little  respect.  But  Henry  was  a  devout  servant  of 
le  Church. 

t         "  Era  gii  1'  ora  che  volge  '1  desio 
A'  naviganti,  e  intenerisce  '1  cuore 
Lo  di  ch'  an  detto  a'  dolci  amici  a  Dio ; 

E  che  lo  nuovo  peregrin  d'  amore 
Punge,  se  ode  squilla  di  lontano 
Che  paia  '1  giorno  pianger  che  si  muore." 

.  famous  passage,  untiring  in  the  repetition.  It  is,  indeed,  worthy  to  be  tho 
oice  of  Evening  herself. 

'Twas  now  the  hour,  when  love  of  home  melts  through 
Men's  hearts  at  sea,  and  longing  thoughts  portray 
The  moment  when  they  bade  sweet  friends  adieu ; 

And  the  new  pilgrim  now,  on  his  lone  way, 
Thrills,  if  he  hears  the  distant  vesper-bell, 
That  seems  to  mourn  for  the  expiring  day. 

Ivery  body  knows  the  line  in  Gray's  Elegy,  not  imworthily  echoed  from 
•ante's — 

"  The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day." 

[othing  can  equal,  however,  the  tone  in  the  Italian  original, — the 

"  Piia  '1  gi6mo  piinger  che  si  mu6re." 

Jas  I  why  could  not  the  great  Tuscan  have  been  superior  enough  to  his  per- 
)nal  griefs  to  write  a  whole  book  full  of  such  beauties,  and  so  have  left  us  a 
'ork  truly  to  be  called  Divine  ? 


100  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


he  did,  stretch  forth  both  hands,  palm  to  palm,  towards  the  East, 
and  with  softest  emotion  commence  the  hymn  beginning, 

"  Thee  before  the  closing  light."* 

Upon  which  all  the  rest  devoutly  and  softly  followed  him,  keep- 
ing their  eyes  fixed  on  the  heavens.  At  the  end  of  it  they  re- 
mained, with  pale  countenances,  in  an  attitude  of  humble  expec- 
tation ;  and  Dante  saw  the  angels  issue  from  the  quarter  to  which 
they  looked,  and  descend  towards  them  with  flaming  swords  in 
their  hands,  broken  short  of  the  point.  Their  wings  were  as 
green  as  the  leaves  in  spring ;  and  they  wore  garments  equally 
green,  which  the  fanning  of  the  wings  kept  in  a  state  of  stream- 
ing fluctuation  behind  them  as  they  came.  One  of  them  took  his 
stand  on  a  part  of  the  hill  just  over  where  the  pilgrims  stood,  and 
the  other  on  a  hill  opposite,  so  that  the  party  in  the  valley  were 
between  them.  Dante  could  discern  their  heads  of  hair,  notwith- 
standing its  brightness ;  but  their  faces  were  so  dazzling  as  to  be 
undistinguishable. 

"  They  come  from  Mary's  bosom,"  whispered  Sordello,  "to 
protect  the  valley  from  the  designs  of  our  enemy  yonder, — the 
Serpent." 

Dante  looked  in  trepidation  towards  the  only  undefended  side 
of  the  valley,  and  beheld  the  Serpent  of  Eve  coming  softly 
among  the  grass  and  flowers,  occasionally  turning  its  head^  and 
licking  its  polished  back.  Before  he  could  take  off*  his  eyes 
from  the  evil  thing,  the  two  angels  had  come  down  like  falcons, 
and  at  the  whirring  of  their  pinions  the  serpent  fled.  The 
angels  returned  as  swiftly  to  their  stations. 

Aurora  was  now  looking  palely  over  the  eastern  cliff  on  the 
other  side  of  the  globe,  and  the  stars  of  midnight  shining  over  the 
heads  of  Dante  and  his  friends,  when  they  seated  themselves  for 
rest  on  the  mountain's  side.  The  Florentine,  being  still  in  the 
flesh,  lay  down  for  weariness,  and  was  overcome  with  sleep.  In 
his  sleep  he  dreamt  that  a  golden  eagle  flashed  down  like  light-. 
ning  upon  him,  and  bore  him  up  to  the  region  of  fire,  where  the 
heat  was  so  intense  that  it  woke  him,  staring  and  looking  round 
about  with  a  pale  face.     His  dream  was  a  shadowing  of  the 

•  «'  To  lucis  ante  teiminum  ;"— a  hymn  sung  at  evening  service. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUvili   PURGaTORY.  101 

truth.  He  had  actually  come  to  another  place, — to  the  entrance 
of  Purgatory  itself.  Sordello  had  been  left  behind,  Virgil  alone 
remained,  looking  him  cheerfully  in  the  face.  Saint  Lucy  had 
come  from  heaven,  and  shortened  the  fatigue  of  his  journey  by 
carrying  him  upwards  as  he  slept,  the  heathen  poet  following 
them.  On  arriving  where  they  stood,,  the  fair  saint  intimated  the 
enirance  of  Purgatory  to  Virgil  by  a  glance  thither  of  her  beau- 
tiful eyes,  and  then  vanished  as  Dante  woke.* 

The  portal  by  which  Purgatory  was  entered  was  embedded  in 
a  clitf.  It  had  three  steps,  each  of  a  different  colour ;  and  on 
the  highest  of  these  there  sat,  mute  and  watching,  an  angel  in 
ash-coloured  garments,  holding  a  naked  sword,  which  glanced 
with  such  intolerable  brightness  on  Dante,  whenever  he  attempt- 
ed to  look,  that  he  gave  up  the  endeavour.  The  angel  demanded 
who  they  were,  and  receiving  the  right  answer,  gently  bade  them 
advance. 

Dante  now  saw,  that  the  lowest  step  was  of  marble,  so  white 
and  clear  that  he  beheld  his  face  in  it.  The  colour  of  the  next 
was  a  deadly  black,  and  it  was  all  rough,  scorched,  and  full  of 
cracks.  The  third  was  of  flaming  porphyry,  red  as  a  man's 
blood  when  it  leaps  forth  under  the  lancet. f  The  angel,  w^hose 
feet  were  on  the  porphyry,  sat  on  a  threshold  which  appeared  to 
be  rock-diamond.  Dante,  ascending  the  steps,  with  the  encour- 
agement of  Virgil,  fell  at  the  angel's  feet,  and,  after  thrice  beat- 
ing himself  on  the  breast,  humbly  asked  admittance.  The  angel, 
with  the  point  of  his  sword,  inscribed  the  first  letter  of  the  word 
peccatum  (sin)  seven  times  on  the  petitioner's  forehead ;  then, 
bidding  him  pray  with  tears  for  their  erasement,  and  be  cautious 
how  he  looked  back,  opened  the  portal  with  a  silver  and  a  golden 

*  Lucy,  Lucia  (supposed  to  be  derived  from  lux,  lucis),  is  the  goddess  (I 
was  almost  going  to  say)  who  in  Roman  Catholic  countries  may  be  said  to  pre- 
side over  light,  and  who  is  really  invoked  in  maladies  of  the  eyes.  She  was 
Dante's  favourite  saint,  possibly  for  that  reason  among  others,  for  he  had  once 
hurt  his  eyes  with  study,  and  they  had  been  cured.  In  her  spiritual  charac- 
ter she  represents  the  light  of  grace. 

t  The  first  step  typifies  consciousness  of  sin  ;  the  second,  horror  of  it ;  the 
third,  zeal  to  amend. 


102  rUE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


key.*  The  hinges  roared,  as  they  turned,  like  thunder  ;  and  the 
pilgrims,  on  entering,  thought  they  heard,  mingling  with  the 
sound,  a  chorus  of  voices  singing,  "  We  praise  thee,  O  God  I"! 
It  was  like  the  chant  that  mingles  with  a  cathedral  org^n,  when 
the  words  that  the  choristers  utter  are  at  one  moment  to  be  distin- 
guished, and  at  another  fade  away. 

Tlie  companions  continued  ascending  till  they  reached  a  plain. 
It  stretched  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  and  was  as  lonely  as 
roads  across  deserts. 

This  was  the  first  flat,  or  table-land,  of  the  ascending  grada- 
tions of  Purgatory,  and  the  place  of  trial  for  the  souls  of  the 
Proud.  It  was  bordered  with  a  mound,  or  natural  wall,  of  white 
marble,  sculptured  all  over  with  stories  of  humility.  Dante  be- 
held among  them  the  Annunciation,  represented  with  so  much 
life,  that  the  sweet  action  of  the  angel  seemed  to  be  uttering  the 
very  word,  "  Hail. !"  and  the  submissive,  spirit  of  the  Virgin  to 
be  no  less  impressed,  like  very  wax,  in  her  demeanour.  The 
next  story  was  that  of  David  dancing  and  harping  before  the  ark, 
— an  action  in  which  he  seemed  both  less  and  greater  than  a  king. 
Michal  was  looking  out  upon  him  from  a  window,  like  a  lady  full 
of  scorn  and  sorrow.  Next  to  the  story  of  David  was  that  of  the 
Emperor  Trajan,  when  he  did  a  thing  so  glorious,  as  moved  St. 
Gregory  to  gain  the  greatest  of  all  his  conquests — the  delivering 
of  the  emperor's  soul  from  hell. 

A  widow,  in  tears  and  mourning,  was  laying  hold  of  his  bridle 
as  he  rode  amidst  his  court  with  a  noise  of  horses  and  horsemen, 
while  the  Roman  eagles  floated  in  gold  over  his  head.  The  mis- 
erable creature  spoke  out  loudly  among  them  all,  crying  for  ven- 
geance on  tlie  murderers  of  her  sons.  The  emperor  seemed  to 
say,  "  Wait  till  I  return." 

But  she,  in  the  hastiness  of  her  misery,  said,  "  Suppose  thou 
returnest  not?" 

"  Then  my  successor  will  attend  to  thee,"  replied  the  em- 
peror. 

*  Thp  keys  of  St.  Peter.  Tlie  gold  is  said  by  the  commentators  to  mean 
power  to  absolve  ;  the  silver,  the  learning  and  judgment  requisite  to  use  it. 

t  •'  Te  Deum  laudimus,"  the  well-known  hymn  of  St.  Ambrose  and  St. 
Aii"U8tine. 


THE   JOURNEY   THROUGH   PURGATORY.  103 

"  And  what  hast  tlioii  to  do  with  the  duties  of  another  man," 
cried  she,  "  if  thou  attcndest  not  to  thine  own  ?" 

"  Now,  be  of  fi^ood  comfort,"  concluded  Trajan,  "  for  verily  my 
duty  shall  be  done  before  I  go  ;  justice  wills  it,  and  pity  arrests 
me.'" 

Dante  was  proceeding  to  delight  himself  further  with  these 
sculptures,  when  Virgil  whispered  him  to  look  round  and  see 
what  was  coming.  He  did  so,  and  beheld  strange  figures  ad- 
vancing, the  nature  of  which  he  could  not  make  out  at  first,  for 
they  seemed  neither  human,  nor  aught  else  which  he  could  call 
to  mind.  They  were  souls  of  the  proud,  bent  double  under  enor- 
mous burdens. 

"  O  proud,  miserable,  woe-begone  Christians  !"  exclaims  the 
poet ;  "  ye  who,  in  the  shortness  of  your  sight,  see  no  reason  for 
advancing  in  the  right  path  !  Know  ye  not  that  we  are  worms, 
born  to  compose  the  angelic  butterfly,  provided  we  throw  off  the 
husks  that  impede  our  flight  ?"* 

The  souls  came  slowly  on,  each  bending  down  in  proportion  to 
his  burden.  Thev  looked  like  the  crouching  ficrures  in  architec- 
ture  that  are  used  to  support  roofs  or  balconies,  and  that  excite 
piteous  fancies  in  the  beholders.  The  one  that  appeared  to  have 
the  most  patience,  yet  seemed  as  if  he  said,  "  I  can  endure  no 
further." 

The  sufferers,  notwithstanding  their  anguish,  raised  their  voices 
in  a  paraphrase  on  the  Lord's  Prayer,  which  they  concluded  with 
humbly  stating,  that  they  repeated  the  clause  against  temptation, 
not  for  themselves,  but  for  those  who  were  yet  living. 

Virgil,  wishing  them  a  speedy  deliverance,  requested  them  to 
ahew  the  best  way  of  going  up  to  the  next  circle.  Who  it  was 
that  answered  him  could  not  be  discerned,  on  account  of  their  all 
being  so  bent  down ;  but  a  voice  gave  them  the  required  direction  ; 
the  speaker  adding,  that  he  wished  he  could  raise  his  eyes,  so  as 

*       "  Nou  v'  accorgete  voi,  che  noi  siam  vermi, 
Nati  a  formar  1'  angelica  farfalla, 
Che  vola  a  giustizia  senza  schermi  ?" 

Know  you  not,  we  are  worms 
Born  to  compose  the  angelic  butterfly, 
That  flies  to  heaven  when  freed  from  what  deforms  ? 


104  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


to  see  the  living  creature  that  stood  near  him.  He  said  that  his 
name  was  Omberto — that  he  came  of  the  great  Tuscan  race  of 
Aldobrandesco — and  that  his  countrymen,  the  Siennese,  murdered 
him  on  account  of  his  arrogance. 

Dante  had  bent  down  his  own  head  to  listen,  and  in  so  doing  he 
was  recognised  by  one  of  the  sufferers,  who,  eyeing  him  as  well 
as  he  could,  addressed  him  by  name.  The  poet  replied  by  ex- 
claiming, "  Art  thou  not  Oderisi,  the  glory  of  Agubbio,  the  mas- 
ter of  the  art  of  illumination  ?" 

"  Ah !"  said  Oderisi,  "  Franco  of  Bologna  has  all  the  glory 
now.  His  colours  make  the  pages  of  books  laugh  with  beauty, 
compared  with  what  mine  do.*  I  could  not  have  owned  it  while 
on  earth,  for  the  sin  which  has  brought  me  hither  ;  but  so  it  is  ; 
and  so  will  it  ever  be,  let  a  man's  fame  be  never  so  green  and 
flourishing,  unless  he  can  secure  a  dull  age  to  come  after  him. 
Cimabue,  in  painting,  lately  kept  the  field  against  all  comers,  and 
now  the  cry  is  'Giotto.'  Thus,  in  song,  a  new  Guido  has  de- 
prived the  first  of  his  glory,  and  he  perhaps  is  born  who  shall 
drive  both  out  of  the  nest.f  Fame  is  but  a  wind  that  changes 
about  from  all  quarters.  What  does  glory  amount  to  at  best,  that 
a  man  should  prefer  living  and  growing  old  for  it,  to  dying  in  the 
days  of  his  nurse  and  his  pap-boat,  even  if  it  should  last  him  a 
thousand  years  ?  A  thousand  years  ! — the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  | 
Behold  this  man,  who  weeps  before  me  ;  his  name  resounded  j 
once  over  all  our  Tuscany,  and  now  it  is  scarcely  whispered  in  J 
his  native  place.     He  was  lord  there  at  the  time  that  your  once 

*  "  Piti  ridon  le  carte  * 

Che  penelleggia  Franco  Bolognese  : 
L'  onore  6  tutto  or  suo,  e  mio  in  parte." 
t  The  "  new  Guido"  is  his  friend  Guido  Cavalcante  (now  dead)  ;  the  "  first" 
is  Guido  Guinicelli,  for  whose  writings  Dinte  had  an  esteem  ;  and  the  poet, 
who  is  to  "  chase  them  from  the  nest,"  caccerd  di  nido  (as  the  not  very  friend- 
ly metaphor  states  it),  is  with  good  reason  supposed  to  be  himself!  He  was 
right ;  but  was  the  statement  becoming  ?  It  was  certainly  not  necessary. 
Danto,  notwithstanding  his  friendship  with  Guido,  appears  to  have  had  a  grudge 
against  both  tlic  Cavalcanti,  probably  for  some  scorn  they  had  shewn  to  his 
superstition  ;  for  they  could  be  proud  themselves  ;  and  the  son  has  the  repu- 
tation of  scepticism,  as  well  as  the  father.  See  the  DeQameron,  Giorn.  vi. 
Nov.  9. 


THE   JOURNEY   THROUGH    PURGATORY.  105 


proud  but  now  loathsome  Florence  had  such  a  lesson  given  to  its 
frenzy  at  the  battle  of  Arbia." 

"And  what  is  his  name?"  inquired  Dante. 

"  Salvani,"  returned  the  limner.  "He  is  here,  because  he 
had  the  presumption  to  think  that  he  could  hold  Sienna  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand.  Fifty  years  has  he  paced  in  this  manner. 
Such  is  the  punishment  for  audacity." 

"  But  why  is  he  here  at  all,"  said  Dante,  "  and  not  in  the  outer 
region,  among  the  delayers  of  repentance  ?" 

"  Because,"  exclaimed  the  other,  "  in  the  height  of  his  ascend- 
ancy he  did  not  disdain  to  stand  in  the  public  place  in  Sienna, 
and,  trembling  in  every  vein,  beg  money  from  the  people  to  ran- 
som a  friend  from  captivity.  Do  I  appear  to  thee  to  speak  with 
mysterious  significance  ?  Thy  countrymen  shall  too  soon  help 
thee  to  understand  me."* 

Virgil  now  called  Dante  away  from  Oderisi,  and  bade  him 
notice  the  ground  on  which  they  were  treading.  It  was  pave- 
ment, wrought  all  over  with  figures,  like  sculptured  tombstones. 
There  was  Lucifer  among  them,  struck  flaming  down  from 
heaven  ;  and  Briareus,  pinned  to  the  earth  with  the  thunderbolt, 
and,  with  the  other  giants,  amazing  the  gods  with  his  hugeness  ; 
and  Nimrod,  standing  confounded  at  the  foot  of  Babel ;  and 
Niobe,  with  her  despairing  eyes,  turned  into  stone  amidst  her 
children ;  and  Saul,  dead  on  his  own  sword  in  Gilboa ;  and 
Arachne,  now  half  spider,  at  fault  on  her  own  broken  web  ;  and 
Rehoboam,  for  all  his  insolence,  flying  in  terror  in  his  chariot ; 
and  Alcmseon,  who  made  his  mother  pay  with  her  life  for  the  or- 
nament she  received  to  betray  his  father  ;  and  Sennacherib,  lefl 
dead  by  his  son  in  the  temple ;  and  the  head  of  Cyrus,  thrown 
by  the  motherless  woman  into  the  goblet  of  blood,  that  it  might 
swill  what  it  had  thirsted  for ;  and  Holofernes,  beheaded ;  and 
his  Assyrians  flying  at  his  death ;  and  Troy,  all  become  cinders 

*  This  is  the  passage  from  which  it  is  conjectured  that  Dante  knew  what  it 
was  to  "  tremble  in  every  vein,"  from  the  awful  necessity  of  begging.  Mr. 
Car}-,  with  some  other  commentators,  thinks  that  the  "  trembling"  implies  fear 
of  being  refused.  But  does  it  not  rather  mean  the  agony  of  the  humiliation  ? 
In  Salvani's  case  it  certainly  does  ;  for  it  was  in  consideration  of  the  pang  to  his 
pride,  that  the  good  deed  rescued  him  from  worse  punishment. 


106  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS. 


and  hollow  places.  Oh !  what  a  fall  from  pride  was  there ! 
Now,  maintain  the  loftiness  of  your  looks,  ye  sons  of  Eve,  and 
walk  with  proud  steps,  bending  not  your  eyes  on  the  dust  ye 
were,  lest  ye  perceive  the  evil  of  your  ways.* 

"  Behold,"  said  Virgil,  ''  there  is  an  angel  coming." 

The  angel  came  on,  clad  in  white,  with  a  face  that  sent  trem- 
bling beams  before  it,  like  the  morning  star.  He  shewed  the 
pilgrims  the  way  up  to  the  second  circle ;  and  then,  beating  his 
wings  against  the  forehead  of  Dante,  on  which  the  seven  initials 
of  sin  were  written,  told  him  he  should  go  safely,  and  disap- 
peared. 

On  reaching  the  new  circle,  Dante,  instead  of  the  fierce  wail- 
ings  that  used  to  meet  him  at  every  turn  in  hell,  heard  voices 
singing,  "  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit.""}"  As  he  went,  he  per- 
ceived that  he  walked  lighter,  and  was  told  by  Virgil  that  the 
angel  had  freed  him  from  one  of  the  letters  on  his  forehead.  He 
put  his  hand  up  to  make  sure,  as  a  man  does  in  the  street  when 
people  take  notice  of  something  on  his  head  of  which  he  is  not 
aware  ;  and  Virgil  smiled. 

In  this  new  circle  the  sin  of  Envy  was  expiated.  After  the 
pilgrims  had  proceeded  a  mile,  they  heard  the  voices  of  invisible 
spirits  passing  them,  uttering  sentiments  of  love  and  charity ;  for 
it  was  charity  itself  that  had  to  punish  envy. 

The  souls  of  the  envious,  clad  in  sackcloth,  sat  leaning   for 

*  The  reader  will  have  noticed  the  extraordinary  mixture  of  Paganism  and 
the  Bible  in  this  passage,  especially  the  introduction  of  such  fables  as  Niobe 
and  Arachne.  It  would  be  difficult  not  to  suppose  it  intended  to  work  out 
some  half  sceptical  purpose,  if  we  did  not  call  to  mind  the  grave  authority  given 
to  fables  in  the  poet's  treatise  on  Monarchy,  and  the  whole  strange  spirit,  at  once 
logical  and  gratuitous,  of  the  learning  of  his  age,  when  the  acuter  the  mind, 
the  subtler  became  tlie  reconcilement  with  absurdity. 

t  J^eati  pai/peres  spiritu.  "  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit ;  for  theirs  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven" — one  of  the  beautiful  passages  of  the  beautiful  sermon 
on  the  Mount.  How  could  the  great  poet  read  and  admire  such  passages,  and 
yet  fill  his  books  so  full  of  all  which  they  renounced  ?  "  Oh,"  say  his  idola- 
ters, "  he  did  it  out  of  his  very  love  for  them,  and  his  impatience  to  see  them 
triumph."  So  said  the  Inquisition.  The  evil  was  continued  for  the  sake  of 
the  good  which  it  prevented  I  The  result  in  the  long-run  may  be  so,  but  not 
for  the  reasons  they  supposed,  or  from  blindness  to  the  indulgence  of  their  bad 
passions. 


THE   JOURNEY    THROUGH    PURGATORY.  107 

support  and  humiliation,  partly  against  the  rocky  wall  of  the  cir- 
cle, and  partly  on  one  another's  shoulders,  after  the  manner  of 
beggars  that  ask  alms  near  places  of  worship.  Their  eyes  were 
sewn  up,  like  those  of  hawks  in  training,  but  not  so  as  to  hinder 
them  from  shedding  tears,  which  they  did  in  abundance  ;  and 
they  cried,  "  Mary,  pray  for  us ! — Michael,  Peter,  and  all  the 
saints,  pray  for  us  !" 

Dante  spoke  to  them  ;  and  one,  a  female,  lifted  up  her  chin  as 
a  blind  person  does  when  expressing  consciousness  of  notice,  and 
said  she  was  Sapia  of  Sienna,  who  used  to  be  pleased  at  people's 
misfortunes,  and  had  rejoiced  when  her  countrymen  lost  the 
battle  of  Colle.  "  Sapia  was  my  name,"'  she  said,  "  but  sapient 
I  was  not,*"  for  I  prayed  God  to  defeat  my  countrymen ;  and 
when  he  had  done  so  (as  he  had  willed  to  do),  I  raised  my  bold 
face  to  heaven,  and  cried  out  to  him,  '  Now  do  thy  worst,  for  I 
fear  thee  not !'  I  was  like  the  bird  in  the  fable,  who  thought  the 
fine  day  was  to  last  for  ever.  What  I  should  have  done  in  my 
latter  days  to  make  up  for  the  imperfect  amends  of  my  repentance, 
I  know  not,  if  the  holy  Piero  Pettignano  had  not  assisted  me  with 
his  prayers.  But  who  art  thou  that  goest  with  open  eyes,  and 
breathest  in  thy  talk?*' 

"  Mine  eyes,"  answered  Dante,  "  may  yet  have  to  endure  the 
blindness  in  this  place,  though  for  no  long  period.  Far  more  do 
I  fear  the  sufferings  in  the  one  that  I  have  just  left.  I  seem  to 
feel  the  weight  already  upon  me."f 

*  "  Sdvia  non  fui,  awegna  che  Sapia 
Fosse  chiamata." 
The  pun  is  poorer  even  than  it  sounds  in  English  ;  for,  though  the  Italian 
name  may  possibly  remind  its  readers  of  sapienza  (sapience),  there  is  the  differ- 
ence of  a  u  in  the  adjective  savia,  which  is  also  accented  on  the  first  syllable. 
It  is  almost  as  bad  as  if  she  had  said  in  English,  "  Sophist  I  found  myself, 
though  Sophia  is  my  name."  It  is  pleasant,  however,  to  see  the  great  satur- 
nine poet  among  the  punsters.  It  appears,  from  the  commentators,  that  Sapia 
was  in  exile  at  the  time  of  the  battle,  but  they  do  not  say  for  what ;  probably 
from  some  zeal  of  faction. 

t  We  are  here  let  into  Dante's  confessions.  He  owns  to  a  little  envy,  but 
far  more  pride : 

"  Gli  occhi,  diss'  io,  mi  fieno  ancor  qui  tolti, 
Ma  picciol  tempo  ;  che  poch'  6  1'  offesa 
Fatta  per  csser  con  invidia  volti. 


108  THE    ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS. 


The  Florentine  then  informed  Sapia  how  he  came  thither, 
which,  she  said,  was  a  great  sign  that  God  loved  him ;  and  she 
begged  his  prayers.  The  conversation  excited  the  curiosity  of 
two  spirits  who  overheard  it ;  and  one  of  them,  Guido  del  Duca, 
a  noble  Romagnese,  asked  the  poet  of  what  country  he  was. 
Dante,  without  mentioning  the  name  of  the  river,  intimated  that 
he  came  from  the  banks  of  the  Arno ;  upon  which  the  other 
spirit,  Rinier  da  Calboli,  asked  his  friend  why  the  stranger  sup- 
pressed the  name,  as  though  it  was  something  horrible.  Guido 
said  he  well  might ;  for  the  river,  throughout  its  course,  beheld 
none  but  bad  men  and  persecutors  of  virtue.  First,  he  said,  it 
made  its  petty  way  by  the  sties  of  those  brutal  hogs,  the  people 
of  Casentino,  and  then  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  watering  the 
kennels  of  the  curs  of  Arezzo,  who  excelled  more  in  barking 
than  in  biting  ;  then,  growing  unluckier  as  it  grew  larger,  like 
the  cursed  and  miserable  ditch  that  it  was,  it  found  in  Florence 
the  dogs  become  wolves ;  and  finally,  ere  it  went  into  the  sea,  it 
passed  the  den  of  those  foxes,  the  Pisans,  who  were  full  of  such 
cunning  that  they  held  traps  in  contempt. 

"  It  will  be  well,"  continued  Guido,  "  for  this  man  to  remem- 
ber what  he  hears  ;"  and  then,  after  prophesying  evil  to  Florence, 
and  confessing  to  Dante  his  sin  of  envy,  which  used  to  make  him 
pale  when  any  one  looked  happy,  he  added,  "  This  is  Rinieri,  the 
glory  of  that  house  of  Calboli  which  now  inherits  not  a  spark  of 
it.  Not  a  spark  of  it,  did  I  say,  in  the  house  of  Calboli  ?  Where 
is  there  a  spark  in  all  Romagna  ?  Where  is  the  good  Lizio  ? — 
where  Manardi,  Traversaro,  Carpigna  ?  The  Romagnese  have 
all  become  bastards.  A  mechanic  founds  a  house  in  Bologna  !  a 
Bernardin  di  Fosco  finds  his  dog-grass  become  a  tree  in  Faenza  ! 
Wonder  not,  Tuscan,  to  see  me  weep,  when  I  think  of  the  noble 
spirits  that  we  have  lived  with — of  the  Guidos  of  Prata,  and  the 
Ugolins  of  Azzo — of  Federigo   Tignoso  and   his   band — of  the 

Troppa  b  piu  la  paura  ond'  6  sospcsa 
L'  animu  mi:i  del  tormeiito  di  sotto : 
Che  gift  lo  'ncarco  di  li  giu  mi  pesa." 

The  first  confession  is  singularly  ingenuous  and  modest ;  the  second,  affecting. 
It  is  curious  to  guess  what  sort  of  persons  Dante  could  have  allowed  himself  to 
envy — probably  those  who  were  more  acceptable  to  women. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   PURGATORY.  109 


Traversaros  and  Anastagios,  families  now  ruined — and  all  the 
ladies  and  the  cavaliers,  the  alternate  employments  and  delights 
which  wrapped  us  in  a  round  of  love  and  courtesy,  where  now 
there  is  nothing  but  ill-will  !  O  castle  of  Brettinoro  !  why  dost 
thou  not  fall  ?  Well  has  the  lord  of  Bagnacavallo  done,  who 
will  have  no  more  children.  Who  would  propagate  a  race  of 
Counties  from  such  blood  as  the  Castrocaros  and  the  Conios  ?  Is 
not  the  son  of  Pagrani  called  the  demon  ?  and  would  it  not  be 
better  that  such  a  son  were  swept  out  of  the  family  ?  Nay,  let 
him  live  to  show  to  what  a  pitch  of  villany  it  has  arrived.  Ubal- 
dini  alone  is  blessed,  for  his  name  is  good,  and  he  is  too  old  to 
leave  a  child  after  him.  Go,  Tuscan — go ;  for  I  would  be  left 
to  my  tears." 

Dante  and  Virgil  turned  to  move  onward,  and  had  scarcely 
done  so  when  a  tremendous  voice  met  them,  splitting  the  air  like 
peals  of  thunder,  and  crying  out,  "  Whoever  finds  me  will  slay 
me  !"  then  dashed  apart,  like  the  thunder-bolt  when  it  falls.  It 
was  Cain.  The  air  had  scarcely  recovered  its  silence,  when  a 
second  crash  ensued  from  a  ditferent  quarter  near  them,  like 
thunder  when  the  claps  break  swiftly  into  one  another.  "  I  am 
Aglauros,"  it  said,  "  that  was  turned  into  stone."  Dante  drew 
closer  to  his  guide,  and  there  ensued  a  dead  silence.* 

The  sun  was  now  in  the  west,  and  the  pilgrims  were  journey- 
ing towards  it,  when  Dante  suddenly  felt  such  a  weight  of  splen- 
dour on  his  eves,  as   forced  him  to   screen   them  with   both   his 

*  Aglauros,  daughter  of  Cecrops,  king  of  Athens,  was  turned  to  stone  by 
Mercury',  for  disturbing  with  her  envy  his  passion  for  her  sister  Herse. 

The  passage  about  Cain  is  one  of  the  subliniest  in  Dante.  Truly  wonderful 
and  characteristic  is  the  way  in  which  he  has  made  physical  noise  and  violence 
express  the  anguish  of  the  wanderer's  mind.  We  are  not  to  suppose,  I  conceive, 
that  we  see  Cain.  We  know  he  has  passed  us,  by  his  thunderous  and  headlong 
words.  Dante  may  well  make  him  invisible,  for  his  words  are  things — veritable 
thunderbolts.         ^ 

Cain  comes  in  rapid  successions  of  thunder-claps.  The  voice  of  iVglauros 
is  thunder-claps  crashing  into  one  another — broken  thunder.  This  is  exceed- 
ingly fine  also,  and  wonderful  as  a  variation  upon  that  awful  music  ;  but  Cain 
is  the  a.stonishment  and  the  overwhelmingness.  If  it  were  not,  however,  for  the 
second  thunder,  we  should  not  have  had  the  two  silences  ;  for  I  doubt  whether 
they  are  not  better  even  than  one.  At  all  events,  the  final  silence  is  tremen- 
dous. 


110  THE    ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS. 


hands.  It  was  an  angel  coming  to  shew  them  the  ascent  to  the 
next  circle,  a  way  that  was  less  steep  than  the  last.  While 
mounting,  they  heard  the  angel's  voice  singing  behind  them, 
"  Blessed  are  the  merciful  ;  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy  !"  and  on 
his  leaving  them  to  proceed  by  themselves,  the  second  letter  on 
Dante's  forehead  was  found  to  have  been  effaced  by  the  splen- 
dour. 

The  poet  looked  round  in  wonder  on  the  new  circle,  where  the 
sin  of  Anger  was  expiated,  and  beheld,  as  in  a  dream,  three  suc- 
cessive spectacles  illustrative  of  the  virtue  of  patience.  The 
first  was  that  of  a  crowded  temple,  on  the  threshold  of  which 
a  female  said  to  her  son,  in  the  sweet  manner  of  a  mother,  "  Son, 
w^hy  hast  thou  thus  dealt  with  us  ?  Behold,  thy  father  and  I 
have  sought  thee  sorrowing  :"* — and  here  she  became  silent,  and 
the  vision  ended.  The  next  was  the  lord  of  Athens,  Pisistratus, 
calmly  reproving  his  wife  for  wishing  him  to  put  to  death  her 
daughter's  lover,  who,  in  a  transport,  had  embraced  her  in  public. 
"  If  we  are  to  be  thus  severe,"  said  Pisistratus,  "  with  those  that 
lOve  us,  what  is  to  be  done  with  such  as  hate  ?"  The  last  spec- 
tacle was  that  of  a  furious  multitude  shouting  and  stoning  to 
death  a  youth,  who,  as  he  fell  to  the  ground,  still  kept  his  face 
towards  heaven,  making  his  eyes  the  gates  through  which  his 
soul  reached  it,  and  imploring  forgiveness  for  his  murderers. "j" 

The  visions  passed  away,  leaving  the  poet  staggering  as  if  but 
half  awake.  They  were  succeeded  by  a  thick  and  noisome  fog, 
through  which  he  followed  his  leader  with  the  caution  of  a  blind 
man,  Virgil  repeatedly  telling  him  not  to  quit  him  a  moment. 
Here  they  heard  voices  praying  in  unison  for  pardon  to  the 
"  Lamb  of  God,  who  takcth  away  the  sins  of  the  world."  They 
were  the  spirits  of  the  angry.  Dante  conversed  with  one  of  them 
on  free-will  and  necessity  ;  and  after  quitting  him.  and  issuing  by 
degrees  from  the  cloud,  beheld  illustrative  visions  of  anger  ;  such 
as  the  impious  mother,  who  was  changed  into  the*bird  that  most 
delights  in  singing  ;  Haman,  retaining  his  look  of  spite  and  rage 
on  the  cross ;  and  Lavinia,  mourning  for  her  mother,  who  slew 
herself  for  rage  at  the  death  of  Turnus.:{: 

*  St.  Luke  ii.  48.  t  The  stoning  of  Stephen- 

t  These  illustrative  spectacles  are  not  among  the  best  inventions  of  Dante. 


THE  JOURNEV   THROUGH    PURGATORY.  Ill 


These  visions  were  broken  off  by  a  great  light,  as  sleep  is 
broken :  and  Dante  heard  a  voice  out  of  it  saying,  "  The  ascent 
is  here."  He  then,  as  Virgil  and  he  ascended  into  the  fourth 
circle,  felt  an  air  on  his  face,  as  if  caused  by  the  fanning  of 
wings,  accompanied  by  the  utterance  of  the  words,  "  Blessed  are 
the  peace-makers;"  and  his  forehead  was  lightened  of  the  third 
letter.* 

In  this  fourth  circle  was  expiated  Lukewarmness,  or  defect  of 
zeal  for  good.  The  sufferers  came  speeding  and  weeping  round 
the  mountain,  making  amends  for  the  old  indifference  by  the  haste 
and  fire  of  the  new  love  that  was  in  them.  "  Blessed  Mary  made 
haste,"  cried  one,  "  to  salute  Elizabeth."  "  And  Csesar,"  cried 
another,  "  to  smite  Pompey  at  Lerida."f  "  And  the  disobedient 
among  the  Israelites,"  cried  others,  "  died  before  they  reached  the 
promised  land."  "And  the  tired  among  the  Trojans  preferred 
ease  in  Sicily  to  glory  in  Latium." — It  was  now  midnight,  and 
Dante  slept  and  had  a  dream. 

His  dream  was  of  a  woman  who  came  to  him,  having  a  tongue 
that  tried  ineffectually  to  speak,  squinting  eyes,  feet  whose  distor- 
tion drew  her  towards  the  earth,  stumps  of  hands,  and  a  pallid 
face.  Dante  looked  earnestly  at  her,  and  his  look  acted  upon  her 
like  sunshine  upon  cold.  Her  tongue  was  loosened ;  her  feet 
made  straight ;  she  stood  upright ;  her  paleness  became  a  lovely 
rose-colour ;  and  she  warbled  so  beautifully,  that  the  poet  could 
not  have  refused  to  listen  had  he  wished  it. 

"  I  am  the  sweet   Syren,"  she  said,  "  who   made  the  mariners 

Their  introduction  is  forced,  and  the  instances  not  always  pointed.  A  murder- 
ess, too,  of  her  son,  changed  into  such  a  bird  as  tlie  nightingale,  was  not  a 
happy  association  of  ideas  in  Homer,  where  Dante  found  it ;  and  I  am  sur- 
prised he  made  use  of  it,  intimate  as  he  must  have  been  with  the  less  inconsis- 
tent story  of  her  namesake,  Philomela,  in  the  Metamorphoses. 

*  So,  at  least,  I  conceive,  by  what  appears  afterwards ;  and  I  may  here  add, 
once  for  all,  that  I  have  supplied  the  similar  requisite  intimations  at  each  suc- 
cessive step  in  Purgator>',  the  poet  seemingly  having  forgotten  to  do  so.  It  is 
necessary  to  what  he  implied  in  the  outset.  The  whole  poem,  it  is  to  be  re- 
membered, is  thought  to  have  wanted  his  final  revision. 

i  What  an  instance  to  put  among  those  of  haste  to  do  good  I  But  the  fame 
and  accomplishments  of  Csesar,  and  his  being  at  the  head  of  our  Ghibelline'a 
beloved  emperors,  fairly  overwhelmed  Dante's  boasted  impartiality. 


112  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


turn  pale  for  pleasure  in  the  sea.  I  drew  Ulysses  out  of  his 
course  with  my  song  ;  and  he  that  harbours  with  me  once,  rarely 
departs  ever,  so  well  I  pay  him  for  what  he  abandons." 

Her  lips  were  not  yet  closed,  when  a  lady  of  holy  and  earnest 
countenance  came  up  to  shame  her.  "  O  Virgil  !"  she  cried  an- 
grily, "  who  is  this  ?"  Virgil  approached,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  lady  ;  and  the  lady  tore  away  the  garments  of  the  woman, 
and  shewed  her  to  be  a  creature  so  loathly,  that  the  sleeper  awoke 
with  the  horror.* 

Virgil  said,  "  I  have  called  thee  three  times  to  no  purpose. 
Let  us  move,  and  find  the  place  at  which  we  are  to  go  higher." 

It  was  broad  day,  with  a  sun  that  came  warm  on  the  shoulders  ; 
and  Dante  was  proceeding  with  his  companion,  when  the  softest 
voice  they  ever  heard  directed  them  where  to  ascend,  and  they 
found  an  angel  with  them,  who  pointed  his  swan-like  wings  up- 
ward, and  then  flapped  them  against  the  pilgrims,  taking  away 
the  fourth  letter  from  the  forehead  of  Dante.  "  Blessed  are  they 
that  mourn,"  said  the  angel,  "  for  they  shall  be  comforted." 

The  pilgrims  ascended  into  the  fifth  circle,  and  beheld  the  ex- 
piators  of  Avarice  grovelling  on  the  ground,  and  exclaiming,  as 
loud  as  they  could  for  the  tears  that  choked  them,  "  My  soul  hath 
cleaved  to  the  dust."  Dante  spoke  to  one,  who  turned  out  to  be 
Pope  Adrian  the  Fifth.  The  poet  fell  on  his  knees  ;  but  Adrian 
bade  him  arise  and  err  not.  "  I  am  no  longer."  said  he,  "  spouse 
of  the  Church,  here ;  but  fellow-servant  with  thee  and  with  all 
others.     Go  thy  ways,  and  delay  not  the  time  of  my  deliver- 


ance." 


The  pilgrims  moving  onward,  Dante  heard  a  spirit  exclaim,  in 
the  struggling  tones  of  a  woman  in  child-bed,  "  O  blessed  Virgin  ! 
That  was  a  poor  roof  thou  hadst  when  thou  wast  delivered  of  thy 
sacred  burden.  O  good  Fabricius  !  Virtue  with  poverty  was 
thy  choice,  and  not  vice  with  riches."  And  then  it  told  the  story 
of  Nicholas,  who,  hearing  that  a  father  was  about  to  sacrifice  the 
honour  of  his  three  daughters  for  want  of  money,  threw  bags  of  it 
in  at  his  window,  containing  portions  for  them  all. 

*  A  meisterly  allegorv  of  Worldly  Pleasure.  But  the  close  of  it  in  the  origi- 
nal has  an  inteupity  of  the  revolting,  which  outrages  the  last  recesses  of  feeling, 
and  disgusts  us  with  the  denouncer. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   PURGATORY.  1]3 

Dante  earnestly  addressed  this  spirit  to  know  who  he  was  ;  and 
the  spirit  said  it  would  tell  him,  not  for  the  sake  of  help,  for  which 
it  looked  elsewhere,  but  because  of  the  shining  grace  that  was  in 
his  questioner,  though  yet  alive. 

'•  I  was  root,"  said  the  spirit,  "  of  that  evil  plant  which  over- 
shadows all  Christendom  to  such  little  profit.  Hugh  Capet  was 
I,  ancestor  of  the  Philips  and  Louises  of  France,  offspring  of  a 
butcher  of  Paris,  when  the  old  race  of  kings  was  worn  out.*  We 
began  by  seizing  the  government  in  Paris ;  then  plundered  in 
Provence  ;  then,  to  make  amends,  laid  hold  of  Poitou,  Normandy, 
and  Gascony  ;  then,  still  to  make  amends,  put  Conradin  to  death 
and  seized  Naples  ;  then,  always  to  make  amends,  gave  Saint 
Aquinas  his  dismissal  to  Heaven  by  poison.  I  see  the  time  at 
hand  when  a  descendant  of  mine  will  be  called  into  Italy,  and  the 
spear  that  Judas  jousted  ivitli\  shall  transfix  the  bowels  of  Flor- 
ence. Another  of  my  posterity  sells  his  daughter  for  a  sum  of 
money  to  a  Marquis  of  Ferrara.  Another  seizes  the  pope  in 
Alagna,  and  mocks  Christ  over  again  in  the  person  of  his  Vicar. 
A  fourth  rends  the  veil  of  the  temple,  solely  to  seize  its  money. 

*  The  fierce  Hugh  Capet,  soliloquising  about  the  Virgin  in  the  tones  of  a 
lady  in  child-bed,  is  rather  too  ludicrous  an  association  of  ideas.  It  was  for 
calling  this  prince  the  son  of  a  butcher,  that  Francis  the  First  prohibited  the 
admission  of  Dante's  poem  into  his  dominions.  Mr.  Gary  thinks  the  king  might 
have  been  mistaken  in  his  interpretation  of  the  passage,  and  that  "  butcher" 
may  be  simply  a  metaphorical  term  for  the  bloodthirstiness  of  Capet's  father. 
But  when  we  find  the  man  called,  not  the  butcher,  or  thai  butcher,  or  butcher 
in  reference  to  his  species,  but  in  plain  local  parlance  "  a  butcher  of  Paris"  (un 
heccaio  di  Parigi),  and  when  this  designation  is  followed  up  by  the  allusion  to 
the  extinction  of  the  previous  dynasty,  the  ordinary  construction  of  the  words 
appears  indisputable.  Dante  seems  to  have  had  no  ground  for  what  his  aristo- 
cratical  pride  doubtless  considered  a  hard  blow,  and  what  King  Francis,  in- 
deed, condescended  to  feel  as  such.  He  met  with  the  notion  somewhere,  and 
chose  to  believe  it,  in  order  to  vex  the  French  and  their  princes.  The  spirit 
of  the  taunt  contradicts  his  own  theories  elsewhere  ;  for  he  has  repeatedly  said, 
that  the  only  true  nobility  is  in  the  mind.  But  his  writings  (poetical  truth  ex- 
cepted) are  a  heap  of  contradictions. 

t  Mr.  Gary  thought  he  had  seen  an  old  romance  in  which  there  is  a  combat 
of  this  kind  between  Jesus  and  his  betrayer.  I  have  an  impression  to  the 
same  effect. 

9 


114  THE   ITALIAN    PlLGRlArs   PROGRESS. 


O  Lord,  how  shall  I  rejoice  to  see  the  vengeance  which  even 
now  thou  huggest  in  delight  to  thy  bosom  !* 

"  Of  loving  and  liberal  things,"  continued  Capet,  "  we  speak 
while  it  is  lifrht  ;  such  as  thou  heardest  me  record,  when  I  ad- 
dressed  myself  to  the  blessed  Virgin.  But  when  night  comes,  we 
take  another  tone.  Then  we  denounce  Pygmalion,t  the  traitor, 
the  robber,  and  the  parricide,  each  the  result  of  his  gluttonous 
love  of  gold  ;  and  Midas,  who  obtained  his  wish,  to  the  laughter 
of  all  time ;  and  the  thief  Achan,  who  still  seems  frightened  at 
the  wrath  of  Joshua ;  and  Sapphira  and  her  husband,  whom  we 
accuse  over  again  before  the  Apostles ;  and  Heliodorus,  whom 
we  bless  the  hoofs  of  the  angel's  horse  for  trampling  ;^  and  Cras- 
sus,  on  whom  we  call  with  shouts  of  derision  to  tell  us  the  flavour 
of  his  molten  gold.  Thus  we  record  our  thoughts  in  the  night- 
time, now  high,  now  low,  now  at  greater  or  less  length,  as  each 
man  is  prompted  by  his  impulses.  And  it  was  thus  thou  didst 
hear  me  recording  also  by  day-time,  though  I  had  no  respondent 
near  me." 

The  pilgrims  quitted  Hugh  Capet,  and  were  eagerly  pursuing 
their  journey,  when,  to  the  terror  of  Dante,  they  felt  the  whole 
mountain  of  Purgatory  tremble,  as  though  it  were  about  to  fall 
in.  The  island  of  Delos  shook  not  so  awfully  when  Latona, 
hiding  there,  brought  forth  the  twin  eyes  of  Heaven.  A  shout 
then  arose  on  every  side,  so  enormous,  that  Virgil  stood  nigher  to 

*     "  O  Signor  mio,  quando  sar6  io  lieto 
A  veder  la  vendetta  che  nascosa 
Fa  dolce  1'  ira  tua  nel  tuo  segreto !" 

The  spirit  of  the  blasphemous  witticism  attributed  to  another  Italian,  viz.  that 
the  reason  why  God  prohibited  revenge  to  mankind  was  its  being  "  too  delicate 
a  morsel  for  any  but  himself,"  is  here  gravely  anticipated  as  a  positive  compli- 
ment to  God  by  the  fierce  poet  of  the  thirteenth  century,  who  has  been  held 
up  aH  a  great  Christian  divine  !  God  hugs  revenge  to  his  bosom  with  delight! 
The  Supreme  Being  confounded  with  a  poor  grinning  Florentine  ! 

t  A  ludicrous  anti-climax  this  to  modern  ears!  The  allusion  is  to  the  Pyg- 
malion who  was  Dido's  brother,  and  who  murdered  her  husband,  the  priest 
Sichu'us,  for  his  riches.  Tlie  term  **  parricide"  is  here  applied  in  its  secondary 
Benso  of — the  murderer  of  any  one  to  whom  we  owe  reverence. 

X  Heliodorus  was  a  plunderer  of  the  Temple,  thus  supematurally  punished. 
The  subject  has  been  nobly  treated  by  Raphael. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   PURGATORY.  115 


his  companion,  and  bade  him  be  of  good  lieart.  "  Glory  be  to 
God  in  the  highest,"  cried  the  shout ;  but  Dante  could  gather  the 
words  only  from  those  who  were  near  him. 

It  was  Purgatory  rejoicing  for  the  deliverance  of  a  soul  out  of 
its  bounds.* 

The  soul  overtook  the  pilgrims  as  they  were  journeying  in 
amazement  onwards  ;  and  it  turned  out  to  be  that  of  Statins, 
who  had  been  converted  to  Christianity  in  the  reign  of  Domitiun.j- 
Mutual  astonishment  led  to  inquiries  that  explained  who  the  other 
Latin  poet  was  ;   and  Statins  fell  at  his  master's  feet. 

Statins  had  expiated  his  sins  in  the  circle  of  Avarice,  not  for 
that  vice,  but  for  the  opposite  one  of  Prodigality. 

An  angel  now,  as  before,  took  the  fifth  letter  from  Dante's 
forehead ;  and  the  three  poets  having  ascended  into  the  sixth 
round  of  the  mountain,  were  journeying  on  lovingly  together, 
Dante  listening  with  reverence  to  the  talk  of  the  two  ancients, 
when  they  came  up  to  a  sweet-smelling  fruit-tree,  upon  which 
a  clear  stream  came  tumbling  from  a  rock  beside  it,  and  diffusing 
itself  through  the  branches.  The  Latin  poets  went  up  to  the 
tree,  and  were  met  by  a  voice  which  said,  "  Be  chary  of  the  fruit. 
Mary  thought  not  of  herself  at  Galilee,  but  of  the  visitors,  when 
she  said,  '  They  have  no  wine.'  The  women  of  oldest  Rome 
drank  water.  The  beautiful  age  of  gold  feasted  on  acorns.  Its 
thirst  made  nectar  out  of  the  rivulet.  The  Baptist  fed  on 
locusts  and  wild  honey,  and  became  great  as  you  see  him  in  the 
gospel." 

The  poets  went  on  their  way  ;  and  Dante  was  still  listening  to 
the  others,  when  they  heard  behind  them  a  mingled  sound  of 
chanting  and  weeping,  which  produced  an  effect  at  once  sad  and 
delightful.  It  was  the  psalm,  "  O  Lord,  open  thou  our  lips  !" 
and  the  chanters  were  expiators  of  the  sin  of  Intemperance  in 
Meats  and  Drinks.  They  were  condemned  to  circuit  the  moun- 
tain, famished,  and  to  long  for  the  fruit  and  waters  of  the  tree  in 

*  A  grand  and  beautiful  fiction. 

t  Readers  need  hardly  be  told  that  there  is  no  foundation  for  this  fancy,  ex- 
cept in  the  invention  of  the  churchmen.  Dante,  in  another  passage,  not  neces- 
sary to  give,  confounds  the  poet  Statius  who  was  from  Naples,  with  a  rhetori- 
cian of  the  same  name  from  Thoulouse. 


116  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


vain.  They  soon  came  up  with  the  poets — a  pallid  multitude, 
with  hollow  eyes,  and  bones  staring  through  the  skin.  The 
sockets  of  their  eyes  looked  like  rings  from  which  the  gems  had 
dropped.*  One  of  them  knew  and  accosted  Dante,  who  could 
not  recognise  him  till  he  heard  him  speak.  It  was  Forese  Do- 
nati,  one  of  the  poet's  most  intimate  connexions.  Dante,  who  had 
wept  over  his  face  when  dead,  could  as  little  forbear  weeping  to 
see  him  thus  hungering  and  thirsting,  though  he  had  expected  to 
find  him  in  the  outskirts  of  the  place,  among  the  delayers  of  re- 
pentance. He  asked  his  friend  how  he  had  so  quickly  got  higher. 
Forese  said  it  was  owing  to  the  prayers  and  tears  of  his  good 
wife  Nella  ;  and  then  he  burst  into  a  strain  of  indignation  against 
the  contrast  exhibited  to  her  virtue  by  the  general  depravity  of 
the  Florentine  women,  whom  he  described  as  less  modest  than 
the  half-naked  savages  in  the  mountains  of  Sardinia. 

"  What  is  to  be  said  of  such  creatures  ?"  continued  he.  "  O 
my  dear  cousin  !  I  see  a  day  at  hand,  when  these  impudent 
women  shall  be  fbrbid-den  from  the  pulpit  to  go  exposing  their 
naked  bosoms.  What  savages  or  what  infidels  ever  needed  that  ? 
Oh !  if  they  could  see  what  Heaven  has  in  store  for  them,  their 
mouths  would  be  this  instant  opened  wide  for  howling. "■!■ 

*  "  Par^n  1'  occhiaje  anella  senza  gemme." 

This  beautiful  and  affecting  image  is  followed  in  the  original  by  one  of  the 
most  fantastical  conceits  of  the  time.  The  poet  says,  that  the  physiognomist, 
who  "  reads  the  word  omo  {homo,  man),  written  in  the  face  of  the  human  be- 
ing, might  easily  have  seen  the  letter  m  in  theirs." 

"  Chi  nel  viso  de  gli  uomini  legge  omo, 
Bene  ayria  quivi  conosciuto  1'  emme" 

The  meaning  is,  that  the  perpendicular  lines  of  the  nose  and  temples  form  the 
letter  m,  and  the  eyes  the  two  o's.  The  enthusiast  for  Roman  domination 
must  have  been  delighted  to  find  that  Nature  wrote  in  Latin  I 

t       "  Se  le  svergognate  fosser  certo 

Di  quel  die  1'  ciel  veloce  loro  ammanna, 
GiJi  per  urlare  avrian  le  bocche  aperte." 

This  will  remind  the  reader  of  the  style  of  that  gentle  Christian,  John  Knox, 
who,  instead  of  offering  his  own  "  cheek  to  the  smiters,"  delighted  to  smite  the 
cheeks  of  women.  Fury  was  his  mode  of  preaching  meekness,  and  threats  of 
everlasting  howling  his  reproof  of  a  tune  on  Sundays.     But,  it  will  be  said,  he 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH    PURGATORY.  117 

Forese  then  asked  Dante  to  explain  to  liiniself  and  his  aston- 
ished fellow-sufrerers  how  it  was  that  he  stood  there,  a  living  body 
of  flesh  and  blood,  casting  a  shadow  with  his  substance. 

"  If  thou  callest  to  mind,"  said  Dante,  ''  what  sort  of  life  thou 
and  I  led  together,  the  recollection  may  still  grieve  thee  sorely. 
He  that  walks  here  before  us  took  me  out  of  that  life  ;  and  through 
his  guidance  it  is  that  I  have  visited  in  the  body  the  world  of  the 
dead,  and  am  now  traversing  the  mountain  which  leads  us  to  the 
right  path."* 

After  some  further  explanation,  Forese  pointed  out  to  his  friend, 
among  the  expiators  of  intemperance.  Buonaggiunta  of  Lucca, 
the  poet ;  and  Pope  Martin  the  Fourth,  with  a  face  made  sharper 
than  the  rest  for  the  eels  which  he  used  to  smother  in  wine  ;  and 

looked  to  consequences.  Yes  ;  and  produced  the  worst  himself,  both  spiritual 
and  temporal.  Let  the  whisky-shops  answer  him.  However,  he  helped  to 
save  Scotland  from  Purgatory :  so  we  must  take  good  and  bad  together,  and 
hope  the  best  in  the  end. 

Forese,  like  many  of  Dante's  preachers,  seems  to  have  been  one  of  those 
self-ignorant  or  self-exasperated  denouncers,  who 

"  Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to, 
By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to." 

He  was  a  glutton,  who  could  not  bear  to  see  ladies  too  little  clothed.  The  de- 
facing of  '•■  God*s  image"  in  his  own  person  he  considered  nothing. 

*  The  passage  respecting  his  past  life  is  unequivocal  testimony  to  the  fact, 
confidently  disputed  by  some,  of  Dante's  having  availed  himself  of  the  license 
of  the  time  ;  though,  in  justice  to  such  candour,  we  are  bound  not  to  think 
worse  of  it  than  can  be  helped.     The  words  in  the  original  are : 

"  Se  ti  riduci  a  mente 
Qual  fosti  meco,  e  quale  io  teco  fui, 
Ancor  fia  grave  il  memorar  presente." 

Literally  :  "  If  thou  recallest  to  mind  what  (sort  of  person)  thou  wast  with  me, 
and  what  I  was  with  thee,  the  recollection  may  oppress  thee  still." 

His  having  been  taken  out  of  that  kind  of  life  by  Virgil  (construed  in  the 
literal  sense,  in  wliich,  among  other  senses,  he  has  directed  us  to  construe  him), 
may  imply,  either  that  the  delight  of  reading  Virgil  first  made  him  think  of 
living  in  a  manner  more  becoming  a  man  of  intellect,  or  (possibly)  that  the 
Latin  poet's  description  of  aEneas's  descent  into  hell  turned  his  thoughts  to 
religious  penitence.  Be  this  as  it  may,  his  life,  though  surely  it  could  at  no 
time  have  been  of  any  very  licentious  kind,  never,  if  we- are  to  believe  Boc- 
caccio, became  spotless. 


118  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRLM'S   PROGRESS. 


Ubaldino  of  Pila,  grinding  his  teeth  on  air  ;  and  Archbishop  Bon- 
iface of  Ravonna,  who  fed  jovially  on  his  flock  ;  and  Rigogliosi 
of  Forli,  who  had  had  time  enough  to  drink  in  the  other  world, 
and  yet  never  was  satisfied.  Buonaggiunta  and  Dante  eyed  one 
another  with  curiosity  ;  and  the  farmer  murmured  something 
about  a  lady  of  the  name  of  Gentucca. 

"  Thou  seemest  to  wish  to  speak  with  me/'  said  Dante. 

"  Thou  art  no  admirer,  I  believe,  of  my  native  place,"  said 
Buonaggiunta  ;  "  and  yet,  if  thou  art  he  whom  1  take  thee  to  be, 
there  is  a  damsel  there  shall  make  it  please  thee.  Art  thou  not 
author  of  the  poem  beginning 

*'  Ladies,  that  understand  the  lore  of  love  ?"* 

"  I  am  one,"  replied  Dante,  "  who  writes  as  Love  would  have 
him,  heeding  no  manner  but  his  dictator's,  and  uttering  simply 
what  he  suggests. "•]■ 

"  Ay,  that  is  the  sweet  new  style,"  returned  Buonaggiunta ; 
"  and  I  now  see  what  it  was  that  hindered  the  notary,  and  Guit- 
tone,  and  myself,  from  hitting  the  right  natural  point."  And 
here  he  ceased  speaking,  looking  like  one  contented  to  have  as- 
certained a  truth.:}: 

*  The  mention  of  Gentucca  might  be  thought  a  compliment  to  the  lady,  if 
Dante  had  not  made  Beatrice  afterwards  treat  his  regard  for  any  one  else  but 
herself  with  so  much  contempt.  (See  page  126  of  the  present  volume.) 
Under  that  circumstance,  it  is  hardly  acting  like  a  gentleman  to  speak  of  her 
at  all ;  unless,  indeed,  he  thought  her  a  person  who  would  be  pleased  with  the 
notoriety  arising  even  from  the  record  of  a  fugitive  regard  ;  and  in  that  case 
the  good  taste  of  the  record  would  still  remain  doubtful.  The  probability 
seems  to  be,  that  Dante  was  resolved,  at  all  events,  to  take  this  opportunity  of 
bearding  some  rumour. 

t  A  celebrated  and  charming  passage  : 

"  lo  mi  son  un,  che  quando 
Amore  spira,  noto  ;  e  a  quel  modo 
Che  detta  dentro,  vo  significando." 

I  am  one  that  notes 
When  Love  inspires  ;  and  what  he  speaks  I  tell 
In  his  own  way,  embodying  but  his  thoughts. 
X  Exquisite  truth  of  painting  !  and  a  very  elegant  compliment  to  the  hand- 
Bome  nature  of  Buonaggiunta.     Jacopo  da  Lentino,  called  the  Notary,  and 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   PURGATORY.  119 


The  whole  multitude  then,  except  Forese,  skimmed  away  like 
cranes,  swift  alike  through  eagerness  and  through  leanness. 
Forese  lingered  a  moment  to  have  a  parting  word  with  his  friend, 
and  to  prophesy  the  violent  end  of  the  chief  of  his  family,  Corso, 
run  away  with  and  dragged  at  the  heels  of  his  horse  faster  and 
faster,  till  the  frenzied  animal  smites  him  dead.  Having  given 
the  poet  this  information,  the  prophet  speeded  after  the  others. 

The  companions  now  came  to  a  second  fruit-tree,  to  which  a 
multitude  were  in  vain  lifting  up  their  hands,  just  as  children  lift 
them  to  a  man  who  tantalises  them  with  shewing  something  which 
he  withholds  ;  but  a  voice  out  of  a  thicket  by  the  road-side 
warned  the  travellers  not  to  stop,  telling  them  that  the  tree  was 
an  offset  from  that  of  which  Eve  tasted.  "  Call  to  mind,"  said 
the  voice,  "  those  creatures  of  the  clouds,  the  Centaurs,  whose 
feasting  cost  them  their  lives.  Remember  the  Hebrews,  how  they 
dropped  away  from  the  ranks  of  Gideon  to  quench  their  effemi- 
nate thirst."* 

The  poets  proceeded,  wrapt  in  thought,  till  they  heard  another 
voice  of  a  nature  that  made  Dante  start  and  shake  as  if  he  had 
been  some  paltry  hackney. 

"  Of  what  value  is  thought,"  said  the  voice,  "  if  it  lose  its 
way?     The  path  lies  hither." 

Dante  turned  toward  the  voice,  and  beheld  a  shape  glowing  red 
as  in  a  furnace,  with  a  visage  too  dazzling  to  be  looked  upon.  It 
met  him,  nevertheless,  as  he  drew  nigh,  with  an  air  from  the  fan- 
ning of  its  wings  fresh  as  the  first  breathing  of  the  wind  on  a 
Mav  mornini;,  and  fragrant  as  all  its  flowers  ;  and  Dante  lost  the 
sixth  letter  on  his  forehead,  and  ascended  with  the  two  other  po- 
ets into  the  seventh  and  last  circle  of  the  mountain. 

This  circle  was  all  in  flames,  except  a  narrow  path  on  the  edge 
of  its  precipice,  along  which  the  pilgrims  walked.     A  great  wind 

Fra  Guittone  of  Arezzo,  were  celebrated  verse-writers  of  the  day.  The  lat- 
ter, in  a  sonnet  given  by  Mr.  Cary  in  the  notes  to  his  translation,  says  he  shall 
be  delighted  to  hear  the  trumpet,  at  the  last  day,  dividing  mankind  into  the 
happy  and  the  tormented  (sufferers  under  crudel  martire),  because  an  inscrip- 
tion will  then  be  seen  on  his  forehead,  shewing  that  he  had  been  a  slave  to 
love  !  An  odd  way  for  a  poet  to  show  his  feelings,  and  a  friar  his  religion  ! 
*  Judges  vii.  6. 


120  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


from  outside  of  the  precipice  kept  the  flames  from  raging  beyond 
the  path  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  fire  went  spirits  expiating  the 
sin  of  Incontinence.  They  sang  the  hymn  beginning  "  God  of 
consummate  mercy  !"*  Dante  was  compelled  to  divide  his  atten- 
tion  between  his  own  footsteps  and  theirs,  in  order  to  move  with- 
out destruction.  At  the  close  of  the  hymn  they  cried  aloud,  "  I 
know  not  a  man  !"t  and  then  recommenced  it ;  after  which  they 
again  cried  aloud,  saying,  "  Diana  ran  to  the  wood,  and  drove 
Calisto  out  of  it,  because  she  knew  the  poison  of  Venus !"  And 
then  again  they  sang  the  hymn,  and  then  extolled  the  memories 
of  chaste  women  and  husbands  ;  and  so  they  went  on  without 
ceasing,  as  long  as  their  time  of  trial  lasted. 

Occasionally  the  multitude  that  went  in  one  direction  met  an- 
other which  mingled  with  and  passed  through  it,  individuals  of 
both  greeting  tenderly  by  the  way,  as  emmets  appear  to  do,  when 
in  passing  they  touch  the  antennae  of  one  another.  These  two 
multitudes  parted  with  loud  and  sorrowful  cries,  proclaiming  the 
offences  of  which  they  had  been  guilty ;  and  then  each  renewed 
their  spiritual  songs  and  prayers. 

The  souls  here,  as  in  former  circles,  knew  Dante  to  be  a  living 
creature  by  the  shadow  which  he  cast  :  and  after  the  wonted  ex- 
planations,  he  learned  who  some  of  them  were.  One  was  his 
predecessor  in  poetry,  Guido  Guinicelli,  from  whom  he  could  not 
take  his  eyes  for  love  and  reverence,  till  the  sufferer,  who  told 
him  there  was  a  greater  than  himself  in  the  crowd,  vanished 
away  through  the  fire  as  a  fish  does  in  water.  The  greater  one 
was  Arnauld  Daniel,  the  Provencal  poet,  who,  after  begging  the 
prayers  of  the  traveller,  disappeared  in  like  manner. 

The   sun  by  this  time  was  setting  on  the  fires  of  Purgatory, 

*  SummcB  Deus  clementia.  The  ancient  beginning  of  a  hymn  in  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church  ;  now  altered,  say  the  commentators,  to  "  Summae 
parens  ciementijB." 

t  Virum  non  cognosco.  "  Then  said  Mary  unto  the  angel,  How  shall  this 
be,  seeing  I  know  not  a  man?"— ZuA-e  i.  34. 

The  placing  of  Mary's  interview  with  the  angel,  and  Ovid's  story  of  Ca- 
listo, upon  apparently  the  same  identical  footing  of  authority,  by  spirits  in  all 
the  sincerity  of  agonised  penitence,  is  very  remarkable.  A  dissertation,  by 
some  competent  antiquary,  on  the  curious  question  suggested  by  these  anoma- 
lieu,  would  be  a  welcome  novelty  in  the  world  of  letter. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   PURGATORY.  l^l 


v^hen  an  angel  came  crossing  the  road  through  them,  and  then, 
tanding  on  tlie  edge  of  the  precipice,  with  joy  in  his  looks,  and 
inging,  "Blessed  arc  the  pure  in  heart!"  invited  tlie  three 
•octs  to  plunge  into  the  flames  themselves,  and  so  cross  the  road 
D  the  ascent  by  which  the  summit  of  the  mountain  was  gained. 
)ante,  clasping  his  hands,  and  raising  them  aloft,  recoiled  in  hor- 
or.  The  tiioughtof  all  that  he  had  just  witnessed  made  him  feel 
,s  if  his  own  hour  of  death  was  come.  His  companion  encour- 
.ged  him  to  obey  the  angel  ;  but  he  could  not  stir.  Virgil  said, 
'  Now  mark  me,  son  ;  this  is  the  only  remaining  obstacle  between 
hee  and  Beatrice  ;"  and  then  himself  and  Statius  entering  the 
ire,  Dante  followed  them. 

"  I  could  have  cast  myself,"  said  he,  "  into  molten  glass  to 
lool  myself,  so  raging  was  the  furnace." 

Virgil  talked  of  Beatrice'  to  animate  him.  He  said,  "  Me- 
hinks  I  see  her  eyes  beholding  us."  There  was,  indeed,  a  great 
ight  upon  the  quarter  to  which  they  were  crossing ;  and  out  of 
he  light  issued  a  voice,  which  drew  them  onwards,  singing, 
'  Come,  blessed  of  my  Father  !  Behold,  tlie  sun  is  going  down, 
md  the  night  cometh,  and  the  ascent  is  to  be  gained." 

The  travellers  gained  the  ascent,  issuing  out  of  the  fire  ;  and 
he  voice  and  the  light  ceased,  and  night  was  come.  Unable  to 
Lscend  farther  in  the  darkness,  they  made  themselves  a  bed,  each 
)f  a  stair  in  the  rock  ;  and  Dante,  in  his  happy  humility,  felt  as 
f  he  had  been  a  goat  lying  down  for  the  night  near  two  shep- 
lerds. 

Towards  dawn,  at  the  hour  of  the  rising  of  the  star  of  love,  he 
lad  a  dream,  in  which  he  saw  a  young  and  beautiful  lady  coming 
)ver  a  lea,  and  bending  every  now  and  then  to  gather  flowers  ; 
md  as  she  bound  the  flowers  into  a  garland,  she  sang,  "  I  am 
Leah,  gathering  flowers  to  adorn  myself,  that  my  looks  may  seem 
Dleasant  to  me  in  the  mirror.  But  my  sister  Rachel  abides  be- 
fore the  mirror,  flowerless ;  contented  with  her  beautiful  eyes. 
To  behold  is  my  sister's  pleasure,  and  to  work  is  mine.''* 

*  An  allegory  of  the  Active  and  Contemplative  Life  ;— not,  I  think,  a  hapr 
py  one,  though  beautifully  painted.  It  presents,  apart  from  its  terminating 
comment,  no  necessarj'  intellectual  suggestion ;  is  rendered,  by  the  comment 
itself,  hardly  consistent  with  Leah'fl  express  love  of  ornament ;  and,  if  it  wer^ 


122  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


When  Dante  awoke,  the  beams  of  the  dawn  were  visible ;  and 
they  now  produced  a  happiness  like  that  of  the  traveller,  who 
every  time  he  awakes  knows  himself  to  be  nearer  home.  Yirgil 
and  Statins  were  already  up  ;  and  all  three,  resuming  their  way 
to  the  mountain's  top,  stood  upon  it  at  last,  and  gazed  round  about 
them  on  the  skirts  of  the  terrestrial  Paradise.  The  sun  was 
sparkling  bright  over  a  green  land,  full  of  trees  and  flowers. 
Virgil  then  announced  to  Dante,  that  here  his  guidance  terminated, 
and  that  the  creature  of  flesh  and  blood  was  at  length  to  be  mas- 
ter of  his  own  movements,  to  rest  or  to  wander  as  he  pleased,  the 
tried  and  purified  lord  over  himself. 

The  Florentine,  eager  to  taste  his  new  liberty,  left  his  compan- 
ions awhile,  and  strolled  away  through  the  celestial  forest,  whose 
thick  and  lively  verdure  gave  coolness  to  the  senses  in  the  midst 
of  the  brightest  sun.  A  fragrance  came  from  every  part  of  the 
soil ;  a  sweet  unintermitting  air  streamed  against  the  walker's 
face  ;  and  as  the  full-hearted  birds,  warbling  on  all  sides,  wel- 
comed the  morning's  radiance  into  the  trees,  the  trees  themselves 
joined  in  the  concert  with  a  sv/elling  breath,  like  that  which  rises 
among  the  pines  of  Chiassi,  when  Eolus  lets  loose  the  south-wind, 
and  the  gathering  melody  comes  rolling  through  the  forest  from 
bough  to  bough.* 

Dante  had  proceeded  far  enough  to  lose  sight  of  the  point  at 
which  he  entered,  when  he  found  himself  on  the  bank  of  a  rivu- 

not  for  the  last  sentence,  might  be  taken  for  a  picture  of  two  diiferent  forms  of 
Vanity. 

*      "  Tal,  qual  di  ramo  in  ramo  si  raccoglie 

Per  la  pineta  in  sul  lito  di  Chiassi,  1 

Quand'  Eolo  scirocco  fuor  discioglie." 

"  Even  as  from  branch  to  branch 
Along  the  piny  forests  on  the  shore 

Of  Cliiassi,  rolls  the  gathering  melody,  , 

When  Eolus  hath  from  his  cavern  loosed 
The  dripping  south." — Gary. 

"  Tliis  is  the  wood,"  says  Mr.  Cary,  "  where  the  scene  of  Boccaccio's  sub- 
limest  story  (taken  entirely  from  Elinaud,  as  I  learn  in  the  notes  to  the  De- 
cameron, ediz.  Giunti,  1573,  p.  62)  is  laid.  See  Dec,  G.  5,  N.  8,  and  Dry- 
den's  Theodore  and  Honoria.  Our  poet  perhaps  wandered  in  it  during  his 
abode  with  Guido  Novello  da  Polenta." — Translation  of  Dante,  ut  sup.  p.  121. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   PURGATORY.  123 

let,  compared  with  whose  crystal  purity  the  limpidest  waters  on 
earth  were  clouded.  And  yet  it  flowed  under  a  perpetual  depth 
of  shade,  which  no  heam  either  of  sun  or  moon  penetrated. 
Nevertlieless  the  darkness  was  coloured  with  endless  diversities 
of  May-blossoms ;  and  the  poet  was  standing  in  admiration, 
looking  up  at  it  along  its  course,  when  he  beheld  something  that 
took  away  every  other  thought ;  to  wit,  a  lady,  all  alone,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  water,  singing  and  culling  flowers. 

'•  Ah,  lady  !"  said  the  poet,  "  who,  to  judge  by  the  cordial 
beauty  in  thy  looks,  hast  a  heart  overflowing  with  love,  be  pleased 
to  draw  thee  nearer  to  the  stream,  that  I  may  understand  the 
worcls  thou  singest.  Thou  remindest  me  of  Proserpine,  of  the 
place  she  was  straying  in,  and  of  what  sort  of  creature  she 
looked,  when  her  mother  lost  her,  and  she  herself  lost  the  spring- 
time on  earth." 

As  a  lady  turns  in  the  dance  when  it  goes  smoothest,  moving 
round  with  lovely  self-possession,  and  scarcely  seeming  to  put 
one  foot  before  the  other,  so  turned  the  lady  towards  the  water 
over  the  yellow  and  vermilion  flowers,  dropping  her  eyes  gently 
as  she  came,  and  sino-ino-  so  that  Dante  could  hear  her.  Then 
when  she  arrived  at  the  water,  she  stopped,  and  raised  her  eyes 
towards  him,  and  smiled,  showing  him  the  flowers  in  her  hands, 
and  shiftino-  them  with  her  fino-ers  into  a  display  of  all  their 
beauties.  Never  were  such  eyes  beheld,  not  even  when  Venus 
herself  was  in  love.  The  stream  was  a  little  stream  ;  yet  Dante 
felt  it  as  sreat  an  intervention  between  them,  as  if  it  had  been 
Leander's  Hellespont. 

The  lady  explained  to  him  the  nature  of  the  place,  and  how 
the  rivulet  was  the  Lethe  of  Paradise  ; — Lethe,  where  he  stood, 
but  called  Eunoe  higher  up  ;  the  drink  of  the  one  doing  away 
all  remembrance  of  evil  deeds,  and  that  of  the  other  restoring  all 
remembrance  of  good.*  It  was  the  region,  she  said,  in  which 
Adam  and  Eve  had  lived ;  and  the  poets  had  beheld  it  perhaps  in 
their  dreams  on  Mount  Parnassus,  and  hence  imagined  their 
golden  age  ; — and  at  these  words  she  looked  at  Virgil  and  Sta- 
tins,  who  by  this  time  had  come  up,  and  who  stood  smiling  at  her 
kindly  words. 

*  Lethe,  Forgetfulness ;  Eunoe,  Well-mindedness. 


124  THE  ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


Resuming  her  song,  the  lady  turned  and  passed  up  along  the 
rivulet  the  contrary  way  of  the  stream,  Dante  proceeding  at  the 
same  rate  of  time  on  his  side  of  it ;  till  on  a  sudden  she  cried, 
"  Behold,  and  listen  !"  and  a  light  of  exceeding  lustre  came 
streaming  through  the  woods,  followed  by  a  dulcet  melody.  The 
poets  resumed  their  way  in  a  rapture  of  expectation,  and  saw  the 
air  before  them  glowing  under  the  green  boughs  like  fire.  A  divine 
spectacle  ensued  of  holy  mystery,  with  evangelical  and  apoca- 
lyptic  images,  which  gradually  gave  way  and  disclosed  a  car 
brighter  than  the  chariot  of  the  sun,  accompanied  by  celestial 
nymphs,  and  showered  upon  by  angels  with  a  cloud  of  flowers, 
in  the  midst  of  which  stood  a  maiden  in  a  white  veil,  cro\^ed 
with  olive. 

The  love  that  had  never  left  Dante's  heart  from  childhood  told 
him  who  it  was  ;  and  trembling  in  every  vein,  he  turned  round 
to  Virgil  for  encouragement.  Virgil  was  gone.  At  that  moment, 
Paradise  and  Beatrice  herself  could  not  requite  the  pilgrim  for 
the  loss  of  his  friend  ;   and  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

"  Dante,"  said  the  veiled  maiden  across  the  stream,  "  weep  not 
that  Virgil  leaves  thee.  Weep  thou  not  yet.  The  stroke  of  a 
sharper  sword  is  coming,  at  which  it  will  behove  thee  to  weep." 
Then  assuming  a  sterner  attitude,  and  speaking  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  reserves  the  bitterest  speech  for  the  last,  she  added,  "  Observe 
me  well.  I  am,  as  thou  suspectest,  Beatrice  indeed  ; — Beatrice, 
who  has.  to  congratulate  thee  on  deigning  to  seek  the  mountain 
at  last.  And  hadst  thou  so  long  indeed  to  learn,  that  here  only 
can  man  be  happy  ?" 

Dante,  casting  down  his  eyes  at  these  words,  beheld  his  face 
in  the  water,  and  hastily  turned  aside,  he  saw  it  so  full  of  shame. 

Beatrice  had  the  dignified  manner  of  an  offended  parent ;  such 
a  flavour  of  bitterness  was  mingled  with  her  pity. 

She  held  her  peace  ;  and  the  angels  abruptly  began  singing, 
"  In  thee,  O  Lord,  have  I  put  my  trust ;"  but  went  no  farther  in 
the  psalm  than  the  words,  "  Thou  hast  set  my  feet  in  a  large 
room."  The  tears  of  Dante  had  hitherto  been  suppressed  ;  but 
when  the  singing  began,  they  again  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

■  Beatrice,  in  a  milder  tone,  said  to  the  angels,  "  This  man,  when 
he  proposed  to  himself  in  his  youth  to  lead  a  new  life,  was  of  a 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   PURGATORY.  125 

trutli  so  giftctl,  that  every  good  liabit  ouglit  to  liave  thrived  with 
him  ;  but  tlie  richer  the  soil,  tlic  greater  peril  of  weeds.  For  a 
wliile,  tlie  innocent  light  of  my  countenance  drew  him  the  right 
way  ;  but  when  I  quitted  mortal  life,  he  took  away  his  thoughts 
from  remembrance  of  me,  and  gave  himself  to  others.  When  I 
had  risen  from  flesh  to  spirit,  and  increased  in  worth  and  beauty, 
then  did  I  sink  in  his  estimation,  and  he  turned  into  otlier  paths, 
and  pursued  false  images  of  good  that  never  keep  their  promise. 
In  vain  I  obtained  from  Heaven  the  power  of  interfering  in  his 
behalf,  and  endeavoured  to  affect  him  with  it  night  and  day.  So 
little  was  he  concerned,  and  into  such  depths  he  fell,  that  nothing 
remained  but  to  show  him  the  state  of  the  condemned  ;  and  there- 
fore I  went  to  their  outer  regions,  and  commended  him  with  tears 
to  the  guide  that  brought  him  hither.  The  decrees  of  Heaven 
would  be  nought,  if  Lethe  could  be  passed,  and  the  fruit  beyond 
it  tasted,  without  any  payment  of  remorse.* 

"  O  thou,"  she  continued,  addressing  herself  to  Dante,  "  who 
standest  on  the  other  side  of  the  holy  stream,  say,  have  I  not 
spoken  truth  ?" 

Dante  was  so  confused  and  penitent,  that  the  words  failed  as 
they  passed  his  lips. 

"  What  could  induce  thee,"  resumed  his  monitress,  "  when  I 
had  given  thee  aims  indeed,  to  abandon  them  for  objects  that  could 
end  in  nothing  ?" 

Dante  said,  "  Thy  face  was  taken  from  me,  and  the  presence 
of  false  pleasure  led  me  astray." 

"  Never  didst  thou  behold,"  cried  the  maiden,  "  loveliness  like 
mine  ;  and  if  bliss  failed  thee  because  of  my  death,  how  couldst 
thou  be  allured  by  mortal  inferiority  ?  That  first  blow  should 
have  taught  thee  to  disdain  all  perishable  things,  and  aspire  after 
the  soul  that  had  gone  before  thee.     How  could  thy  spirit  endure 

*        "  Senza  alcuuo  scotto 
Di  pciitimcnto." 

Literally,  scot-free. — "  Hcotto,"  scot ; — "  payment  for  dinner  or  supper  in  a 
tavern"  (says  Rubbi,  the  Petrarchal  rather  than  Uantesque  editor  of  the  Par- 
naso  Italiano,  and  a  very  summary  genllemai!)  ;  "  here  used  figuratively, 
though  it  is  not  u  word  fit  to  be  employed  on  serious  and  grand  occasions"  (in 
cose  gravi  ed  illustri).     See  his  "  Dante"  in  that  collection,  vol.  ii.  p.  297. 


126  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 

to  stoop  to  further  chances,  or  to  a  childish  girl,  or  any  other 
fleeting  vanity  ?  The  bird  that  is  newly  out  of  the  nest  may  be 
twice  or  thrice  tempted  by  the  snare ;  but  in  vain,  surely,  is  the 
net  spread  in  sight  of  one  that  is  older."* 

Dante  stood  as  silent  and  abashed  as  a  sorry  child. 

"  If  but  to  hear  me,"  said  Beatrice,  "  thus  afflicts  thee,  lift  up 
thy  beard,  and  see  what  sight  can  do." 

Dante,  though  feeling  the  sting  intended  by  the  word  "  beard," 
did  as  he  was  desired.  The  angels  had  ceased  to  scatter  their 
clouds  of  flowers  about  the  maiden ;  and  he  beheld  her,  though 
still  beneath  her  veil,  as  far  surpassing  her  former  self  in  love- 
liness, as  that  self  had  surpassed  others.  The  sight  pierced  him 
with  such  pangs,  that  the  more  he  had  loved  any  thing  else,  the 
more  he  now  loathed  it ;   and  he  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 

When  he  recovered  his  senses,  he  found  himself  in  the  hands 
of  the  lady  he  had  first  seen  in  the  place,  who  bidding  him  keep 
firm  hold  of  her,  drew  him  into  the  river  Lethe,  and  so  through 
and  across  it  to  the  other  side,  speeding  as  she  went  like  a  weav- 
er's shuttle,  and  immersing  him  when  she  arrived,  the  angels  all 

*  The  allusion  to  the  childish  girl  (pargoleita)  or  any  other  fleeting  vanity, 

"  O  altra  vanitii,  con  si  breve  uso," 

is  not  handsome.  It  was  not  the  fault  of  the  childish  girls  that  he  liked  them  ; 
and  he  should  not  have  taunted  them,  whatever  else  they  might  have  been. 
What  answer  could  they  make  to  the  great  poet  ? 

Nor  does  Beatrice  make  a  good  figure  throughout  this  scene,  whether  as  a 
woman  or  an  allegory.  If  she  is  Theology,  or  Heavenly  Grace,  &c.  the 
sternness  of  the  allegory  should  not  have  been  put  into  female  shape ;  and 
when  she  is  to  be  taken  in  her  literal  sense  (as  the  poet  also  tells  us  she  is), 
her  treatment  of  the  poor  submissive  lover,  with  leave  of  Signer  Rubbi,  is  no 
better  than  snubbing; — to  say  nothing  of  the  vanity  with  which  she  pays  com- 
pliments to  her  own  beauty. 

I  must,  furthermore,  beg  leave  to  differ  with  the  poet's  thinking  it  an  exalted 
symptom  on  his  part  to  hate  every  thing  he  had  loved  before,  out  of  supposed 
compliment  to  the  transcendental  object  of  his  affections  and  his  own  awakened 
merits.  All  the  heights  of  love  and  wisdom  terminate  in  charity  ;  and  charity, 
by  very  reason  of  its  knovvii^  the  poorness  of  so  many  things,  hates  nothing. 
Besides,  it  is  any  thing  but  handsome  or  high-minded  to  turn  round  upon  ob- 
jects whom  we  have  helped  to  lower  with  our  own  gratified  passions,  and  pre- 
tend a  right  to  scorn  them. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   PURGATORY.  127 

the  while  siiiijino;,  "  Wash  me,  and  I  shall  be  whiter  than  snow."* 
She  then  delivered  liini  into  the  hands  of  the  nyinphs  that  had 
danced  about  the  car, — nymphs  on  earth,  but  stars  and  cardinal 
virtues  in  heaven  ;  a  song  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  angels ;  and 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  calling  upon  Beatrice  to  unveil  her 
face,  she  did  so  ;  and  Dante  quenched  the  ten-years  thirst  of  his 
eyes  in  her  inetlable  beauty. f 

After  a  while  he  and  Statins  were  made  thoroughly  regenerate 
with  the  waters  of  Eunoe ;  and  he  felt  pure^with  a  new  being, 
and  fit  to  soar  into  the  stars. 

*  "  Tu  asperges  me,  et  mundabor,"  &.c.     "  Purge  me  with  hyssop,  and  I 
shall  be  clean  ;  wash  me,  and  I  shall  be  whiter  than  snow." — Psalm  li.  7. 
t  Beatrice  had  been  dead  ten  years. 


111. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HEAVEN 


^vijumcut. 

The  Paradise  or  Heaven  of  Dante,  in  whose  time  the  received  system  of 
astronomy  was  the  Ptolemaic,  consists  of  the  Seven  successive  Planets  accord- 
ing to  that  system,  or  the  Moon,  Mercury,  Venus,  the  Sun,  Mars,  Jupiter,  and 
Saturn  ;  of  the  Eighth  Sphere  beyond  these,  or  that  of  the  Fixed  Stars  ;  of 
the  Primum  i»Iobile,  or  First  Mover  of  them  all  round  the  moveless  Earth  ; 
and  of  the  Empyrean,  or  Region  of  Pure  Light,  in  which  is  the  Beatific  Vision. 
Each  of  these  ascending  spheres  is  occupied  by  its  proportionate  degree  of  Faith 
and  Virtue  ;  and  Dante  visits  each  under  the  guidance  of  Beatrice,  receiving 
many  lessons,  as  he  goes,  on  theological  and  other  subjects  (here  left  out),  and 
being  finally  admitted,  after  the  sight  of  Christ  and  the  Virgin,  to  a  glimpse  of 
the  Great  I'irst  Cause. 


THE   JOURNEY  THROUGH  HEAVEN. 


It  was  evening  now  on  earth,  and  morning  on  the  top  of 
the  hill  in  Purgatory,  when  Beatrice  having  fixed  her  eyes  upon 
tlie  sun,  Dante  fixed  his  eyes  upon  hers,  and  suddenly  found  him- 
self in  Heaven. 

He  had  been  transported  by  the  attraction  of  love,  and  Beatrice 
was  by  his  side. 

The  poet  beheld  from  where  he  stood  the  blaze  of  the  empy- 
rean, and  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres  ;  yet  he  was  only  in 
the  first  or  lowest  Heaven,  the  circle  of  the  orb  of  the  moon. 

This  orb,  with  his  new  guide,  he  proceeded  to  enter.  It  had 
seemed,  outside,  as  solid,  though  as  lucid,  as  Diamond  ;  yet  they 
entered  it,  as  sunbeams  are  admitted  into  water,  without  dividing 
the  substance.  It  now  appeared,  as  it  enclosed  them,  like  a  pearl, 
through  the  essence  of  which  they  saw  but  dimly  ,•  and  they  be- 
held many  faces  eagerly  looking  at  them,  as  if  about  to  speak, 
but  not  more  distinct  from  the  surrounding  whiteness  than  pearls 
themselves  are  from  the  forehead  they  adorn.*  Dante  thought 
them  only  reflected  faces,  and  turned  round  to  see  to  whom  they 
belonged,  when  his  smiling  companion  set  him  right ;  and  he  en- 
tered into  discourse  with  the  spirit  that  seemed  the  most  anxious 
to  accost  him.  It  was  Piccarda,  the  sister  of  his  friend  Forese 
Donati,  whom  he  had  met  in  the  sixth  region  of  Purgatory.  He 
did  not  know  her,  by  reason  of  her  wonderful  increase  in  beauty. 

*  A  curious  and  happy  image. 

'•  Toman  de'  nostri  visi  le  postille 
Debili  si,  che  perla  in  bianca  fronte 
Non  vien  men  tosto  a  le  nostra  pupille  : 

Tali  vid'  10  piii  facce  a  parlar  pronto." 


132  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


She  and  her  associates  were  such  as  had  been  Vowed  to  a  Life 
of  Chastity  and  Religion,  but  had  been  Compelled  by  Others  to 
Break  their  Vows.  This  had  been  done,  in  Piccarda's  instance, 
by  her  brother  Corso.*  On  Dante's  asking  if  they  did  not  long 
for  a  hi^rher  state  of  Bliss,  she  and  her  sister-spirits  gently  smiled  ; 
and  then  answered,  vv'ith  flices  as  happy  as  first  love,f  that  they 
willed  only  what  it  pleased  God  to  give  them,  and  therefore  were 
truly  blest.  The  poet  found  by  this  answer,  that  every  place  in 
Heaven  was  paradise,  though  the  bliss  might  be  of  different  de- 
o-rees.  Piccarda  then  shewed  him  the  spirit  at  her  side,  lustrous 
with  all  the  frlory  of  the  region,  Costanza,  daughter  of  the  king 
of  Sicily,  who  had  been  forced  out  of  the  cloister  to  become  the 
wife  of  the  Emperor  Henry.  Having  given  him  this  information, 
she  began  singing  Ave  Maria;  and,  while  singing,  disappeared 
with  the  rest,  as  substances  disappear  in  water. ij: 

A  loving  will  transported  the  two  companions,  as  before,  to  the 
next  circle  of  Heaven,  v»'here  they  found  themselves  in  the  planet 

*  "  Rodolfo  da  Tossignano,  Hist.  Seraph.  Relig.  P.  i.  p.  138,  as  cited  by 
Lonibardi,  relates  the  following  legend  of  Piccarda :  '  Her  brother  Corso,  in- 
flanicd  with  rage  against  his  virgin  sister,  having  joined  with  him  Farinata,  an 
infamous  assassin,  and  twelve  other  abandoned  ruffians,  entered  the  monastery 
by  a  ladder,  and  carried  away  his  sister  forcibly  to  his  own  house  ;  and  then, 
tearing  off  her  religions  habit,  compelled  her  to  go  in  a  secular  garment  to  her 
nuptials.  Before  the  spouse  of  Christ  came  togetlier  with  her  new  husband, 
she  knelt  down  before  a  crucifix,  and  recommended  her  virginity  to  Christ. 
Soon  after,  her  v/hole  body  was  smJtten  with  leprosy,  so  as  to  strike  grief  and 
horror  into  the  beholders  ;  and  thus,  in  a  iew  days,  through  the  divine  disposal, 
phe  passed  with  a  palm  of  virginity  to  the  Lord.  Perhaps  (adds  the  worthy 
Franciscan),  our  poet  not  being  able  to  certify  himself  entirely  of  tliis  occur- 
rence, has  chosen  to  pass  it  over  discreetly,  by  making  Piccarda  say,  '  God 
knows  how,  after  that,  my  life  was  framed.'  " — Gary,  ut  sup.  p.  137. 

t  A  lovely  simile  indeed. 

"  Tanto  beta 
Ch'  arder  parea  d'  amor  nel  primo  foco. 
t  Costanza,  daughter  of  Ruggieri,  king  of  Sicily,  thus  taken  out  of  tlie 
monastery,  was  mother  to  the  Emperor  Frederick  the  Second.  "  She  was 
fifty  years  old  or  more  at  the  time"  (says  Mr.  Cary,  quoting  from  Muratori  and 
others)  ;  "  and  because  it  was  not  credited  that  she  conld  have  a  child  at  that 
age,  she  was  delivered  in  a  pavilion  ;  and  it  was  given  out,  that  any  lady  who 
pleased  was  at  liberty  to  see  her.  Many  came  and  saw  her,  and  the  suspicion 
ceased." — Translation  of  Dante,  ut  sup.  p.  137. 


THE   JOURNEY   TIIROLIGII   HEAVEN.  133 


Mercury,  the  residence  of  those  who  had  acted  rather  out  of  De- 
sire of  Fame  tlian  Love  of  God.  Tlie  spirits  here,  as  in  the  for- 
mer Heaven,  crowded  towards  them,  as  fish  in  a  clear  pond  crowd 
to  the  hand  tiiat  oiTers  them  food.  Tlieir  eyes  sparkled  with  ce- 
lestial joy  ;  and  the  more  they  thought  of  their  joy,  the  brighter 
they  grew ;  till  one  of  them  who  addressed  the  poet  became  in- 
distinguishable for  excess  of  splendour.  It  was  the  soul  of  the 
Emperor  Justinian.  Justinian  told  him  the  whole  story  of  the 
Roman  empire  up  to  his  time  ;  and  then  gave  an  account  of  one 
of  his  associates  in  bliss,  Romeo,  who  had  been  minister  to  Ray- 
mond Beranger,  Count  of  Provence.  Four  daughters  had  been 
born  to  Raymond  Beranger,  and  every  one  became  a  queen ;  and 
all  this  had  been  brought  about  by  Romeo,  a  poor  stranger  from 
another  country.  The  courtiers,  envying  Romeo,  incited  Ray- 
mond to  demand  of  him  an  account  of  his  stewardship,  though  he 
had  brought  his  master's  treasury  twelve  fold  for  every  ten  it  dis- 
bursed. Romeo  quitted  the  court,  poor  and  old  ;  "  and  if  the 
world,"  said  Justinian,  "could  know  the  heart  such  a  man  must 
have  had,  begging  his  bread  as  he  went,  crust  by  crust — praise 
him  as  it  docs,  it  v/ould  praise  him  a  great  deal  more."* 

"  Ilosanna,  Holy  God  of  Sabaoth, 
Superiiliunining  with  light  of  light 
The  Iiappy  fires  of  those  thy  Malaholh  !"t 

Thus  beaan  sinffinir  the  soul  of  the  Emperor  Justinian  ;  and 
then,  turning  as  he  sang,  vanished  with  those  about  him,  like 
sparks  of  fire. 

Dante  now  found  himself,  before  he  was  aware,  in  the  third 
Heaven,  or  planet  Venus,  the  abode  of  the  Amorous4  He  only 
knev/  it  by  the  increased  loveliness  in  the  face  of  his  com- 
pan  ion. 

The  spirits  in  this  orb,  who  came  and  went  in  the  light  of  it 

*  Probably  an  allusion  to  Dante's  own  wanderings, 
t  "  Ho::anna  Sanctus  Deus  Sabaoth 
Superillustrans  claritate  tu^. 
Felices  ignes  horum  Malahoth." 
Malahoih  ;  Hebrew,  kingdoms. 
■     X  The  epithet  is  not  too  strong,  as  will  be  seen  by  the  nature  of  the  inhabi- 
tants. 


134  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


like  sparks  in  fire,  or  like  voices  chanting  in  harmony  with  voice, 
were  spun  round  in  circles  of  delight,  each  with  more  or  less 
swiftness,  according  to  its  share  of  the  beatific  vision.  Several 
of  them  came  sweeping  out  of  their  dance  towards  the  poet  who 
had  suniT  of  Love,  among  whom  was  his  patron,  Charles  Martel, 
kinn-  of  Hungary,  who  shewed  him  the  reason  why  diversities  of 
natures  must  occur  in  families  ;  and  Cunizza,  sister  of  the  tyrant 
Ezzelino,  who  was  overcome  by  this  her  star  when  on  earth  ;  and 
Folco  the  Troubadour,  whose  place  was  next  Cunizza  in  Heaven  ; 
and  Rahab  the  harlot,  who  favoured  the  entrance  of  the  Jews 
into  the  Holy  Land,  and  whose  place  was  next  Folco.*  Cunizza 
said  that  she  did  not  at  all  regret  a  lot  which  carried  her  no 
higher,  whatever  the  vulgar  might  think  of  such  an  opinion.  She 
spoke  of  the  glories  of  the  jewel  who  was  close  to  her,  Folco — 
contrasted  his  zeal  with  the  inertness  of  her  contemptible  coun- 
trymen— and  foretold  the  bloodshed  that  awaited  the  latter  from 
wars  and  treacheries.  The  Troubadour,  meanwhile,  glowed  in 
his  aspect  like  a  ruby  stricken  with  the  sun  ;  for  in  heaven  joy  is 
expressed  by  effulgence,  as  on  earth  by  laughter.     He  confessed 

*  Charles  Martel,  son  of  the  king  of  Naples  and  Sicily,  and  crowned  king 
of  Hungary',  seems  to  have  become  acquainted  with  Dante  during  the  poet's 
youth,  when  the  prince  met  his  royal  father  in  the  city  of  Florence.  He  was 
brother  of  Robert,  who  succeeded  the  father,  and  who  was  the  friend  of 
Petrarch. 

"  The  adventures  of  Cunizza,  overcome  by  the  influence  of  her  star,"  says 
Cary,  "  are  related  by  the  chronicler  Rolandino  of  Padua,  lib.  i.  cap.  3,  in  Mu- 
ratori,  Rer.  Ital.  Script,  toni.  viii.  p.  173.  She  eloped  from  her  tirst  husband, 
Richard  of  St.  Boniface,  in  the  company  of  Sordello  (see  Purg.  canto  vi.  and 
vii.),  with  whom  she  is  supposed  to  have  cohabited  before  her  marriage  :  then 
lived  with  a  soldier  of  Trevigi,  whose  wife  was  living  at  the  same  time  in  the 
eame  city  ;  and,  on  his  being  murdered  by  her  brother  the  tyrant,  was  by  her 
brother  married  to  a  nobleman  of  Braganzo :  lastly,  when  he  also  had  fallen  by 
the  same  hand,  she,  after  her  brother's  death,  was  again  wedded  in  Verona." 
—  Translation  of  Dante,  ut  sup.  p.  147.  See  what  Foscolo  sajs  of  her  in  the 
Discorso  sill  Tesio,  p.  329. 

Folco,  the  gallant  Troubadour,  here  placed  between  Cunizza  and  Rahab,  is 
no  other  than  Folques,  bishop  of  Thoulouse,  the  persecutor  of  the  Albigenses. 
It  is  of  him  the  brutal  anecdote  is  related,  that,  being  asked,  during  an  indis- 
criminate attack  on  that  people,  how  the  orthodox  and  heterodox  were  to  be 
distinguished,  he  said,  "  Kill  all :  God  will  know  his  own." 

For  Rahab,  see  Joshua,  chap.  ii.  and  vi. ;  and  Hebrews  xi.  31. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HEAVEN.        135 

the  lawless  fires  of  his  youth,  as  great  (he  said)  as  those  of  Dido 
or  Hercules  ;  but  added,  tliat  he  had  no  recollection  of  them,  ex- 
cept a  joyous  one,  not  for  the  fault  (which  does  not  come  to  mind 
in  heaven),  but  for  the  good  which  heaven  brings  out  of  it.  Folco 
concluded  with  explaining  how  Rahab  had  come  into  the  third 
Heaven,  and  with  denouncing  the  indifference  of  popes  and  car- 
dinals (those  adulterers  of  the  Church)  to  every  thing  but  ac- 
cursed monev-settino;.* 

In  an  instant,  before  he  could  think  about  it,  Dante  was  in  the 
fourth  Heaven,  the  sun,  the  abode  of  Blessed  Doctors  of  the 
Church.  A  band  of  them  came  encircling  him  and  his  guide, 
as  a  halo  encircles  the  moon,  singing  a  song,  the  beauty  of  which, 
like  jewels  too  rich  to  be  exported,  was  not  conveyable  by  ex- 
pression to  mortal  fancy.  The  spirits  composing  the  band  were 
those  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  Albertus  Magnus,  Gratian  the  Ben- 
edictine, Pietro  Lombardo,  Solomon,  Saint  Dionysius  the  Areopa- 
gite,  Paul  us  Orosius,  Boetius,  Isidore,  the  Venerable  Bede,  Rich- 
ard of  St.  Victor,  and  Sigebert  of  Gemblours.  St.  Thomas  was 
the  namer  of  them  to  Dante.  Their  song  had  paused  that  he 
might  speak ;  but  when  he  had  done  speaking,  they  began  re- 
suming it,  one  by  one,  and  circling  as  they  moved,  like  the  wheels 
of  church  clocks  that  sound  one  after  another  with  a  sweet  tink- 
ling, when  they  summon  the  hearts  of  the  devout  to  morning 
prayer.f 

*  The  reader  ueed  not  be  required  to  attend  to  the  extraordinary  theological 
disclosures  in  the  whole  of  the  preceding  passage,  nor  yet  to  consider  how 
much  more  they  disclose,  than  theology  or  the  poet  might  have  desired. 

t  These  fifteen  personages  are  chiefly  theologians  and  schoolmen,  whose 
names  and  obsolete  writings  are,  for  the  most  part,  no  longer  worth  mention. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  the  band  that  comes  after  them. 

Dante  should  not  have  sot  thcin  dancing.  It  is  impossible  (every  respect- 
fulness of  endeavour  notwithstanding)  to  maintain  the  gravity  of  one's  imagi- 
natidn  at  the  thought  of  a  set  of  doctors  of  the  Church,  Venerable  Bede  inclu- 
ded, wheeling  about  in  giddy  rapture  like  so  many  dancing  derAMses,  and  keep- 
ing time  to  their  ecstatic  anilities  with  voices  tinkling  like  church -clocks.  You 
may  invest  them  with  as  much  light  or  other  blessed  indistinctness  as  you 
please  ;  the  beards  and  the  old  ages  will  break  through.  In  vain  theologians 
may  tell  us  that  our  imaginations  are  not  exalted  enough.  The  answer  (if 
such  a  charge  must  be  gravely  met)  is,  that  Dante's  whole  Heaven  itself  is  not 


136  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


Again  they  stopped,  and  again  St.  Thomas  addressed  the  poet. 
He  was  of  the  order  of  St.  Dominic  ;  but  with  generous  grace 
he  held  up  the  founder  of  the  Franciscans,  with  his  vow  of  pov- 
erty,  as  the  exam.ple  of  what  a  pope  should  be,  and  reproved  the 
errors  of  no  order  but  his  own.  On  the  other  hand,  a  new  circle 
of  doctors  of  the  Church  making  their  appearance,  and  enclosing 
the  first  as  rainbow  encloses  rainbow,  rolling  round  with  it  in  the 
unison  of  a  two-fold  joy,  a  voice  from  the  new  circle  attracted 
the  poet's  ear,  as  the  pole  attracts  the  needle,  and  Saint  Buona- 
ventura,  a  Franciscan,  opened  upon  the  praises  of  St.  Dominic, 
the  lovinf  minion  of  Christianily,  the  holy  wrestler, — benign  to 
his  friends  and  cruel  to  his  enemies  ;* — and  so  confined  his  re- 
proofs to  his  own  Franciscan  order.  He  then,  as  St.  Thomas  had 
done  with  the  doctors  in  the  inner  circle,  named  those  who  con- 
stituted the  outer :  lo  wit,  Illuminato,  and  Agostino,  and  Hugues 
of  St.  Victor,  and  Petrus  Comestor,  and  Pope  John  the  Twenty- 
first,  Nathan  the  Prophet,  Chrysostom,  Ansel  mo  of  Canterbury, 
Donatus  who  deigned  to  teach  grammar,  Raban  of  Mentz,  and 
Joachim  of  Calabria.  The  two  circles  then  varied  their  move- 
ment by  wheeling  round  one  another  in  counter  directions  ;  and 
after  they  had  chanted,  not  of  Bacchus  or  Apollo,  but  of  three 
Persons  in  One,  St.  Thomas,  who  knew  Dante's  thoughts  by  in- 
tuition, again  addressed  him,  discoursing  of  mysteries  human  and 
divine,   exhorting  him   to  be  slow  in  giving  assent  or  denial  to 

exalted  enough,  however  wonderful  and  beantiful  in  parts.  The  pchools,  and 
the  forms  of  Catholic  worship,  held  even  his  ima?rination  down.  There  is  more 
heaven  in  one  placid  idea  of  love  than  in  all  these  dances  and  tinklings. 

*  "  Benigno  a'  suoi,  ed  a'  nimici  crudo." 

Cruel  indeed  ; — the  founder  of  the  Inquisition  I  The  "  lovinrr  miriion"  is  Mr. 
Gary's  excellent  tran.slation  of  "  amoroso  drutlo.''  But  what  a  minion,  and 
how  lovin^T !  With  fire  and  sword  and  devilr)%  and  no  wish  (of  course)  to 
thrust  his  own  will  and  pleasure,  and  bad  arguments,  down  other  people's 
throats  I  St.  Dominic  was  a  Spaniard.  So  was  Borgia.  So  was  Philip  the 
Second.  There  seems  to  have  been  an  inherent  semi-barbarism  in  the  char- 
acter of  Spain,  which  it  has  never  got  rid  of  to  this  day.  If  it  were  not  for 
Cervantes,  and  some  modern  patriots,  it  would  hardly  appear  to  belong  to  the 
right  European  community.  Even  Lope  de  Vega  was  an  inquisitor  ;  and  Men- 
doza,  the  entertaining  author  of  Lazarillo  de  Tonnes,  a  cruel  statesman.  Cer- 
vantes, however,  is  enough  to  sweeten  a  whole  peninsula. 


THE  JOURiNEY   THROUGH   HEAVEN.  137 


propositions  without  examination,  and  bidding  liim  warn  people 
in  general  how  they  presumed  to  anticipate  the  divine  judgment 
as  to  who  should  be  saved  and  who  not.*  The  spirit  of  Solomon 
tiicn  related  how  souls  could  resume  their  bodies  glorified  ;  and  the 
two  circles  uttering  a  rapturous  amen,  glowed  with  such  intole- 
rable brightness,  that  the  eyes  of  Beatrice  only  were  able  to  sus- 
tain it.  Dante  gazed  on  her  with  a  delight  ineffable,"  and  suddenly 
found  himself  in  the  fifth  Heaven. 

It  was  the  planet  Mars,  the  receptacle  of  those  who  had  Died 
Fighting  for  the  Cross.  In  the  middle  of  its  ruddy  light  stood  a 
cross  itself,  of  enormous  dimensions,  made  of  light  still  greater, 
and  exhibiting,  first,  in  the  body  of  it,  the  Crucified  Presence, 
glittering  all  over  with  indescribable  flashes  like  lightning ;  and 
secondly,  in  addition  to  and  across  the  Presence,  innumerable 
sparkles  of  the  intensest  mixture  of  white  and  red,  darting  to  and 
fro  throuirh  the  whole  extent  of  the  crucifix.  The  movement  was 
like  that  of  motes  in  a  sunbeam.  And  as  a  sweet  dinning  arises 
from  the  multitudinous  touching  of  harps  and  viols,  before  the 
ear  distinguishes  the  notes,  there  issued  in  like  manner  from  the 
whole  glittering  ferment  a  harmony  indistinct  but  exquisite, 
which  entranced  the  poet  beyond  all  he  had  ever  felt.  He  heard 
even  the  words,  "  Arise  and  conquer,"  as  one  who  hears  and 
yet  hears  not. 

On  a  sudden,  with  a  glide  like  a  ftiUing  star,  there  ran  down 
from  the  right  horn  of  the  Cross  to  the  foot  of  it,  one  of  the 
lights  of  this  cluster  of  splendours,  distinguishing  itself,  as  it 
went,  like  flame  in  alabaster. 

"  O  flesh  of  my  flesh  !"  it  exclaimed  to  Dante  ;  "  O  super- 
abounding  Divine  Grace !  when  was  the  door  of  Paradise  ever 
twice  opened,  as  it  shall  have  been  to  thee  ?"■}• 

Dante,  in  astonishment,  turned  to  Beatrice,  and  saw  such  a 

*  What  a  pity  the  reporter  of  this  advice  had  not  humility  enough  to  apply 
il  to  himself  I 

t       "  O  sanguis  mens,  o  superinfusa 
Gratia  Dei,  sicut  tibi,  cui 
Bis  unquam  eoeli  jauua  reclusa?" 

The  spirit  says  this  in  Latin,  as  if  to  veil  the  compliment  to  the  poet  in  "  tho 
obscurity  of  a  learned  language."     And  in  truth  it  is  a  little  strong. 


138  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIMS   PROGRESS. 


rapture  of  delight  in  her  eyes,  that  he  seemed,  at  that  instant,  as 
if  his  own  had  touched  the  depth  of  his  acceptance  and  of  his 
heaven.* 

The  light  resumed  its  speech,  but  in  words  too  profound  in 
their  meaning  for  Dante  to  comprehend.  They  seemed  to  be  re- 
turning thanks  to  God.  This  rapturous  absorption  being  ended, 
the  speaker  expressed  in  more  human  terms  his  gratitude  to  Bea- 
trice ;  and  then,  after  inciting  Dante  to  ask  his  name,  declared 
himself  thus : 

"  O  branch  of  mine,  whom  I  have  long  desired  to  behold,  I  am 
the  root  of  thy  stock  ;  of  him  thy  great-grandsire,  who  first 
brought  from  his  mother  the  family-name  into  thy  house,  and 
whom  thou  sawest  expiating  his  sin  of  pride  on  the  first  circle  of 
the  mountain.  Well  it  befitteth  thee  to  shorten  his  lonfj  sufferinor 
with  thy  good  works.  Florence,"]"  while  yet  she  was  confined 
within  the  ancient  boundary  which  still  contains  the  bell  that 
summons  her  to  prayer,  abided  in  peace,  for  she  was  chaste  and 
sober.  She  had  no  trinkets  of  chains  then,  no  head-tires,  no 
gaudy  sandals,  no  girdles  more  worth  looking  at  than  the  wear- 
ers. Fathers  were  not  then  afraid  of  having  daughters,  for 
fear  they  should  want  dowries  too  great,  and  husbands  before 
their  time.  Families  were  in  no  haste  to  separate  ;  nor  had 
chamberers  arisen  to  shew  what  enormities  they  dared  to  practise.! 
The  heights  of  Rome  had  not  been  surpassed  by  your  tower  of 
Uccellatoio,  whose  fall  shall  be  in  proportion  to  its  aspiring.  I 
saw  Bellincion  Berti  walking  the  streets  in  a  leathern  girdle  fas- 
tened with  bone  ;  and  his  wife  come  from  her  lookinsr-slass  with- 
out  a  painted  face.    I  saw  the  Nerlis  and  the  Vecchios  contented 


*       "  Che  dentro  a  gli  occhi  suoi  ardeva  un  riso 
Tal,  ch'  io  pensai  co'  miei  toccar  lo  fondo 
De  la  mia  grazia  e  del  mio  Paradise."  ^ 

That  is,  says  Lombard!,  "  I  thought  my  eyes  could  not  possibly  be  more  fa- 
voured and  imjiaradised"  (Pensai  che  non  potessero  gli  occhi  miei  essere  gra- 
ziali  ed  inii)aradisati  niaggiormente) — Variorum  edition  of  Dante,  Padua 
1822,  vol.  iii.  p.  :J73. 

■f  Here  ensues  the  famous  description  of  those  earlier  times  in  Florence 
which  Dante  eulogises  at  the  expense  of  his  own.  See  the  original  passage 
with  another  version,  in  the  Appendix. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HEAVEN.        139 

vith  the  simplest  doublets,  and  their  good  dames  hard  at  work  at 
heir  spindles.  O  happy  they  !  They  were  sure  of  burial  in 
heir  native  earth,  and  none  were  left  desolate  by  husbands  that 
oved  France  better  than  Italy.  One  kept  awake  to  tend  her 
jhild  in  its  cradle,  lulling  it  with  the  household  words  that  had 
bndled  her  own  infancy.  Another,  as  she  sat  in  the  midst  of 
ler  family,  drawing  the  flax  from  the  distaff,  told  them  stories  of 
Croy,  and  Fiesole,  and  Rome.  It  would  have  been  as  great  a 
vonder,  then,  to  see  such  a  woman  as  Cianghella,  or  such  a  man 
IS  Lapo  Salterello,  as  it  would  now  be  to  meet  with  a  Cincinnatus 
>r  a  Cornelia.* 

"  It  was  at  that  peaceful,  at  that  beautiful  time,"  continued  the 
>oet's  ancestor,  "  when  we  all  lived  in  such  good  faith  and  fellow- 
hip,  and  in  so  sweet  a  place,  that  the  blessed  Virgin  vouchsafed 
he  first  sight  of  me  to  the  cries  of  my  mother  ;  and  there,  in 
""our  old  Baptistery,  I  became,  at  once.  Christian  and  Cacciaguida. 
tly  brothers  were  called  Moronto  and  Eliseo.  It  was  my  wife 
hat  brought  thee,  from  Valdipado,  thy  family  name  of  Alighieri. 

then  followed  the  Emperor  Conrad,  and  he  made  me  a  knight 
or  my  good  service,  and  I  went  with  him  to  fight  against  the 
vicked  Saracen  law,  whose  people  usurp  the  fold  that  remains 
ost  through  the  fault  of  the  shepherd.  There,  by  that  foul  crew, 
vas  I  delivered  from  the  snares  and  pollutions  of  the  world  ;  and 
o,  from  the  martyrdom,  came  to  this  peace.'' 

Cacciaguida  was  silent.  But  his  descendant  praying  to  be  told 
nore  of  his  family  and  of  the  old  state  of  Florence,  the  beatified 
oldier  resumed.  He  would  not,  however,  speak  of  his  own  pre- 
lecessors.  He  said  it  would  be  more  becoming  to  say  nothing  as 
0  who  they  were,  or  the  place  they  came  from.     All  he  disclosed 


*  Bellincion  Berti  was  a  noble  Florentine,  of  the  house  of  the  Ravignani. 
yianghella  is  said  to  bave  been  an  abandoned  woman,  of  manners  as  sliame- 
ess  as  her  morals.  Lapo  Salterelli,  one  of  tlie  co-exiles  of  Dante,  and  special- 
^  hated  by  him,  was  a  personage  who  appears  to  have  exhibited  the  rare  coin- 
lination  of  judge  and  fop.  An  old  commentator,  in  recording  his  attention  to  his 
lair,  seems  to  intimate  that  Dante  alludes  to  it  in  contrasting  him  with  Ciu- 
hmatus.  If  so,  Lapo  might  have  reminded  the  poet  of  what  Cicero  says  of 
is  beloved  Capsar  ; — that  he  once  saw  him  scratching  the  top  of  his  head  with 
lie  tip  of  his  finger,  that  he  might  not  discompose  the  locks. 


140  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


was,  tliat  his  father  and  mother  lived  near  the  gate  San  Piero.*, 
With  recard  to  Florence,  he  continued,  the  number  of  the  inhabi- 
tants  fit  to  carry  arms  was  at  that  time  not  a  fifth  of  its  present! 
amount ;  but  then  the  blood  of  the  whole  city  was  pure.  It  hadi 
not  been  mixed  up  with  that  of  Campi,  and  Certaldo,  and  Figghine. 
It  ran  clear  in  the  veins  of  the  humblest  mechanic. 

"  Oh,  how  much  better  would  it  have  been,"  cried  the  soul  of 
the  old  Florentine,  "  had  my  countrymen  still  kept  it  as  it  was, 
and  not  brought  upon  themselves  the  stench  of  the  peasant  knave 
out  of  Aguglione,  and  that  other  from  Signa,  with  his  eye  to  a 
bribe  !  Plad  Rome  done  its  duty  to  the  emperor,  and  so  preventec 
the  factions  that  have  ruined  us,  Simifonte  would  have  kept  its 
beggarly  upstart  to  itself;  the  Conti  would  have  stuck  to  theii 
parish  of  A.cone,  and  perhaps  the  Buondelmonti  to  Valdigrieve^ 
Crude  mixtures  do  as  much  harm  to  the  body  politic  as  to  the 
natural  body ;  and  size  is  not  strength.  The  blind  bull  falls 
with  a  speedier  plunge  than  the  blind  lamb.  One  sword  ofter 
slashes  round  about  it  better  than  five.  Cities  themselves  perish, 
See  what  has  become  of  Luni  and  of  Urbisaglia  ;  and  what  wil 
soon  become  of  Sinigaglia  too,  and  of  Chiusi !  And  if  cities 
perish,  what  is  to  be  expected  of  families  ?  In  my  time  the  Uglii 
the  Catellini,  the  Filippi,  were  great  names.  So  were  the  Albe 
richi,  the  Ormanni,  and  twenty  others.     The  golden  sword  oi 

*  "  Chi  ei  si  fiiro,  e  onde  venner  quivi, 
Pill  h  tacer  che  ragionare  onesto." 

Some  think  Dante  v/as  ashamed  to  speak  of  these  ancestors,  from  the  lowTies 
of  their  origin  ;  others  that  he  did  not  choose  to  make  them  a  boast,  for  tli 
height  of  it.  I  suspect,  with  Lombardi,  from  his  general  character,  and  fron 
file  willingness  he  has  avowed  to  make  such  boasts  (see  the  opening  of  canti 
xvi..  Paradise,  in  the  original),  that  while  he  claimed  for  them  a  descent  fron 
Iho  Romans  (see  Inferno,  canto  xv.  73.  &c.),  he  knew  them  to  be  poor  ii 
fortune,  perhaps  of  humble  condition.  What  follows,  in  the  text  of  our  ab 
Btract,  about  the  purity  of  the  old  FIon>ntine  blood,  even  in  the  veins  of  thi 
humblest  mechanic,  may  seem  to  intimate  some  corroboration  of  this  ;  and  ifc 
a  curious  specimen  of  republican  pride  and  scorn.  This  horror  of  one's  neigh' 
hours  is  neither  good  Christianity,  nor  surely  any  very  good  omen  of  that  Ital 
ian  union,  of  which  "  Young  Italy"  wishes  to  think  Dante  such  a  harbingeijii 
All  this  too,  observe,  is  said  in  the  presence  of  a  vision  of  Christ  on  thi 
Cross  I 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HEAVEN.        141 

ighthood  was  then  to  be  seen  in  the  house  of  Galigaio.  The 
lumn,  Verrey,  was  then  a  great  thing  in  the  herald's  eye. 
le  Galli,  the  Sacchetti,  were  great ;  so  was  the  old  trunk  of  the 
Ifucci ;  so  was  that  of  the  peculators  who  now  blush  to  hear 
a  measure  of  wheat  ;  and  the  Sizii  and  the  Arrigucci  were 
Lwn  in  pomp  to  their  civic  chairs.  Oh,  how  mighty  I  saw 
m  then,  and  how  low  has  their  pride  brought  them  !  Florence 
those  days  deserved  her  name.  She  J/oz/m/iec^  indeed;  and 
:  balls  of  gold  were  ever  at  the  top  of  the  flower.*  And  nov/ 
I  descendants  of  these  men  sit  in  priestly  stalls  and  grow  fat. 
le  over-weening  Adimari,  who  are  such  dragons  when  their 
s  run,  and  such  lambs  when  they  turn,  were  then  of  note  so 
le,  that  Albertino  Donato  was  angry  with  Bellincion,  his  father- 
law,  for  making  him  brother  to  one  of  their  females.  On  the 
ler  hand,  thy  foes,  the  Amidei,  the  origin  of  all  thy  tears 
ough  the  just  anger  which  has  slain  the  happiness  of  thy  life, 
re  honoured  in  those  days ;  and  the  honour  was  partaken  by 
lir  friends.  O  Buondelmonte  !  why  didst  thou  break  thy  troth 
thy  first  love,  and  become  wedded  to  another  ?  Many  who  are 
N  miserable  would  have  been  happy,  had  God  given  thee  to 
i  river  Ema,  when  it  rose  against  thy  first  coming  to  Florence, 
t  the  Arno  had  swept  our  Palladium  from  its  bridge,  and 
)rence  was  to  be  the  victim  on  its  altar,  "f 
Cacciasuida  was  again  silent ;  but  his  descendant  beo-o-ed  him 
speak  yet  a  little  more.  He  had  heard,  as  he  came  through 
I  nether  regions,  alarming  intimations  of  the  ill  fortune  that 

■  The  Column,  Verrey  (vair,  variegated,  checkered  with  argent  and  azure), 
I  the  Balls  or  (Palle  d'  oro),  were  arms  of  old  families.  I  do  not  trouble  the 
der  with  notes  upon  mere  family-names,  of  which  nothing  else  is  recorded. 

■  An  allusion,  apparently  acquiescent,  to  the  superstitious  popular  opinion 
t  the  peace  of  Florence  was  bound  up  with  the  statue  of  Mars  on  the  old 
Ige,  at  the  base  of  which  Buondelmonte  was  slain. 

>Vith  this  Buondelmonte  the  dissensions  in  Florence  were  supposed  to  have 
t  begun.  Macchiavelli's  account  of  him  is,  that  he  was  about  to  marry  a 
mg  lady  of  the  Amidei  family,  when  a  widow  of  one  of  the  Donati,  who 
1  designed  her  own  daughter  for  him,  contrived  that  he  should  see  her ;  the 
[sequence  of  which  was,  that  he  broke  his  engagement,  and  was  assassina- 
Hisiorie  Florentine,  lib.  ii. 


142  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


awaited  liim,  and  he  was  anxious  to  know,  from  so  high  and  cer.s 
tain  an  authority,  what  it  would  really  be.  | 

Cacciaguida  said,  "  As  Hippolytus  was  forced  to  depart  frorrj 
Athens  by  the  wiles  of  his  cruel  step-dame,  so  must  even  thoi 
depart  out  of  Florence.  Such  is  the  wish,  such  this  very  mo 
ment  the  plot,  and  soon  will  it  be  the  deed,  of  those,  the  busines! 
of  whose  lives  is  to  make  a  traffic  of  Christ  with  Rome.  Thoi 
shalt  quit  every  thing  that  is  dearest  to  thee  in  the  world.  Tha 
is  the  first  arrow  shot  from  the  bow  of  exile.  Thou  shalt  experi 
ence  how  salt  is  the  taste  of  bread  eaten  at  the  expense  of  others 
how  hard  is  the  going  up  and  down  others'  stairs.  But  wha 
shall  most  bow  thee  down,  is  the  worthless  and  disgustincr  com! 
pany  with  whom  thy  lot  must  be  partaken  ;  for  they  shall  all  tun 
against  thee,  the  whole  mad,  heartless,  and  ungrateful  set.  Nev 
ertheless,  it  shall  not  be  long  first,  before  themselves,  and  no 
thou,  shall  have  cause  to  hang  down  their  heads  for  shame.  Th( 
brutishness  of  all  they  do,  will  shew  how  well  it  became  thee  tt 
be  of  no  party,  but  the  party  of  thyself.* 

"  Thy  first  refuge  thou  shalt  owe  to  the  courtesy  of  the  grea 
Lombard,  who  bears  the  Ladder  charged  with  the  Holy  Bird.- 
So  benignly  shall  he  regard  thee,  that  in  the  matter  of  asking  an( 
receiving,  the  customary  order  of  things  shall  be  reversed  be 

*       "  Tu  lascerai  ogni  cosa  diletta 

Pill  caramente  ;  e  questo  e  quelle  strale 
Che  1'  arco  de  1'  esilio  pria  saetta. 

Tu  proverai  si  come  sa  di  sale 
Lo  pane  altrui,  e  com'  e  duro  calle 
Lo  scendere  e  'I  salir  per  1'  altrui  scale. 

E  quel  che  piti  ti  graveri  le  spalle, 
Sari  la  compagnia  malvagia  e  scempia 
Con  la  qual  tu  cadrai  in  questa  valle  : 

Che  tutta  ingrata,  lutta  matta  ed  empia 
Si  farii  contra  te  :  ma  poco  appresso 
Ella,  uon  tu,  n'  avri,  rossa  la  tempia. 

Di  sua  bestialitate  il  suo  processo   * 
FarJi  la  pruova,  si  ch'  a  te  fia  belle 
Averti  fatta  parte  per  te  stesso." 

t  The  Roman  eagle.     These  are  the  arms  of  the  Scaligers  of  Verona. 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HEAVEN.        143 

Lween  you  two,  and  the  gift  anticipate  the  request.  With  him 
thou  shalt  behoki  the  mortal,  born  under  so  strong  an  influence 
Df  this  our  star,  that  the  nations  shall  take  note  of  him.  They 
a,re  not  aware  of  him  yet,  by  reason  of  his  tender  age  ;  but  ere 
the  Gascon  practise  on  the  great  Henry,  sparkles  of  his  worth 
shall  break  forth  in  his  contempt  of  money  and  of  ease  ;  and 
^vhen  his  munificence  appears  in  all  its  lustre,  his  very  enemies 
shall  not  be  able  to  hold  their  tongues  for  admiration.*  Look 
thou  to  this  second  benefactor  also  ;  for  many  a  change  of  the 
lots  of  people  shall  he  make,  both  rich  and  poor  ;  and  do  thou 
bear  in  mind,  but  repeat  not,  what  further  I  shall  now  tell  thee 
Df  thy  life."  Here  the  spirit,  says  the  poet,  foretold  many  things 
which  afterwards  appeared  incredible  to  their  very  beholders ; — 
and  then  added  :  "  Such,  my  son,  is  the  heart  and  mystery  of  the 
things  thou  hast  desired  to  learn.  The  snares  will  shortly  gather 
about  thee  ;  but  wish  not  to  change  places  with  the  contrivers ; 
for  thy  days  will  outlast  those  of  their  retribution." 

Again  was  the  spirit  silent ;  and  yet  again  once  more  did  his 
descendant  question  him,  anxious  to  have  the  advice  of  one  that 
saw  so  far,  and  that  spoke  the  truth  so  purely,  and  loved  him  so 
well. 

"  Too  plainly,  my  father,"  said  Dante,  "  do  I  see  the  time  com- 
ing, when  a  blow  is  to  be  struck  me,  heaviest  ever  to  the  man 
that  is  not  true  to  himself.  For  which  reason  it  is  fit  that  T  so 
far  arm  myself  beforehand,  that  in  losing  the  spot  dearest  to  me 
on  earth,  I  do  not  let  my  verses  deprive  me  of  every  other  refuge. 
Now  I  have  been  down  below  through  the  region  whose  grief  is 
without  end  ;  and  I  have  scaled  the  mountain  from  the  top  of 
which  I  was  lifted  by  my  lady's  eyes  ;  and  I  have  come  thus  far 
through  heaven,  from  luminary  to  luminary  ;  and  in  the  course 
of  this  my  pilgrimage  I  have  heard  things  which,  if  I  tell  again, 
may  bitterly  disrelish  with  many.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  if  I 
prove  but  a  timid  friend  to  truth,  I  fear  I  shall  not  survive  with 
the  generations  by  whom  the  present  times  will  be  called  times 
of  old." 

The  light  that  enclosed  the  treasure  which  its  descendant  had 

*  A  prophecy  of  the  reuown  of  Can  Grande  della  Scala,  who  had  received 
Dante  at  his  court. 


144  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIMS   PROGRESS. 


found  in  heaven,  first  flashed  at  this  speech  like  a  golden  mirror 
af^ainst  the  sun,  and  then  it  replied  thus  : 

"  Let  the  consciences  blush  at  thy  words  that  have  reason  to 
blush.  _Do  thou,  far  from  shadow  of  misrepresentation,  make 
manifest  all  which  thou  hast  seen,  and  let  the  sore  places  be 
galled  that  deserve  it.  Thy  bitter  truths  shall  carry  with  them 
vital  nourishment — thy  voice,  as  the  wind  does,  shall  smite  loud- 
est the  loftiest  summits ;  and  no  little  shall  that  redound  to  thy 
praise.  It  is  for  this  reason  that,  in  all  thy  journey,  thou  hast 
been  shewn  none  but  spirits  of  note,  since  little  heed  would  have 
been  taken  of  such  as  excite  doubt  by  their  obscurity." 

The  spirit  of  Cacciaguida  now  relapsed  into  the  silent  joy  of 
its  reflections,  and  the  poet  was  standing  absorbed  in  the  mingled 
feelings  of  his  own,  when  Beatrice  said  to  him,  "  Change  the  cur- 
rent of  thy  thoughts.  Consider  how  near  I  am  in  heaven  to  one 
that  repayeth  every  wrong." 

Dante  turned  at  the  sound  of  this  comfort,  and  felt  no  longer 
any  other  wish  than  to  look  upon  her  eyes ;  but  she  said,  with  a 
smile,  "  Turn  thee  round  again,  and  attend.  I  am  not  thy  only 
Paradise."  And  Dante  again  turned,  and  saw  his  ancestor  pre- 
pared to  say  more. 

Cacciaguida  bade  him  look  again  on  the  Cross,  and  he  should 
see  various  spirits,  as  he  named  them,  flash  over  it  like  lightning  ; 
and  they  did  so.  That  of  Joshua,  which  was  first  mentioned, 
darted  along  the  Cross  in  a  stream.  The  light  of  Judas  Macca- 
beus went  spinning,  as  if  joy  had  scourged  it."^  Charlemagne 
and  Orlando  swept  away  together,  pursued  by  the  poet's  eyes. 
Guglielmo-j-  followed,  and  Rinaldo,  and  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  and 
Robert  Guiscard  of  Naples ;  and  the  light  of  Cacciaguida  him- 
self  darted  back  to  its  place,  and,  uttering  another  sort  of  voice, 

*  "  Letizia  era  ferza  del  paldo," 

+  Supposed  to  bo  one  of  the  early  Williams,  Princes  of  Orange  ;  but  it  is 
doubted  whether  the  First,  in  the  time  of  Charlemagne,  or  the  Second,  who 
followed  Godfrey  of  Bouillon.  Mr.  Gary  thinks  the  former  ;  and  the  mention 
of  his  kinsman  Rinaldo  (Ariosto's  Paladin?)  seems  to  confirm  his  opinion;  yet 
the  situation  of  the  name  in  the  text  brings  it  nearer  to  Godfrey ;  and  Rinoardo 
(the  name  of  Rinaldo  in  Dante)  might  possibly  mean  *'  Raimbaud,"  the  kins- 
man and  associate  of  the  second  William.  Robert  Guiscard  is  the  Norman 
who  conquered  Naples. 


THE   JOURNEY   THROUGH   HEAVEN.  145 


began  showing  how  sweet  a  singer  he  too  was  amidst  the  glitter- 
ing  choir. 

Dante  turned  to  share  the  joy  with  Beatrice,  and,  by  the  lovely 
paling  of  her  cheek,  like  a  maiden's  wiien  it  delivers  itself  of  the 
burden  of.  a  blush,*  knew  that  he  was  in  another  and  whiter  star. 
It  was  the  planet  Jupiter,  the  abode  of  blessed  Administrators  of 
Justice. 

Here  he  beheld  troops  of  dazzling  essences,  warbling  as  they 
flew,  and  shaping  their  flights  hither  and  thither,  like  birds  when 
they  rise  from  the  banks  of  rivei-s,  and  rejoice  with  one  another 
in  new-found  pasture.  But  the  figures  into  which  the  flights 
were  shaped  were  of  a  more  special  sort,  being  mystical  compo- 
sitions of  letters  of  the  alphabet,  now  a  d,  now  an  i,  now  an  l, 
and  so  on,  till  the  poet  observed  that  they  completed  the  whole 
text  of  Scripture,  which  says,  DUigite  justiiiam,  qui  jiidicatis  ier- 
rmn — (Love  righteousness,  ye  that  be  judges  of  the  earth).  The 
last  letter,  m,  they  did  not  decompose  like  the  rest,  but  kept  it 
entire  for  a  while,  and  glowed  so  deeply  within  it,  that  the  silvery 
orb  thereabout  seemed  burning  with  gold.  Other  lights,  with  a 
song  of  rapture,  then  descended  like  a  crown  of  lilies,  on  the  top 
of  the  letter ;  and  then,  from  the  body  of  it,  rose  thousands  of 
sparks,  as  from  a  sliaken  firebrand,  and,  gradually  expanding  into 
the  form  of  an  eagle,  the  lights  which  had  descended  like  lilies 
distributed  themselves  over  the  whole  bird,  encrusting  it  with 
rubies  flashing  in  the  sun. 

But  what,  says  the  poet,  was  never  yet  heard  of,  written,  or 
imagined, — the  beak  of  the  eagle  spoke  !  It  uttered  many  minds 
in  one  voice,  just  as  one  heat  is  given  out  by  many  embers  ;  and 
proclaimed  itself  to  have  been  thus  exalted,  because  it  united 
justice  and  mercy  while  on  earth. 

Dante  addressed  this  splendid  phenomenon,  and  prayed  it  to 
ease  his  mind  of  the  perplexities  of  its  worldly  reason  respecting 

*  Exquisitely  beautiful  feeling  ! 

"  Quale  e  11  trasmufure  in  picciol  varco 
Di  tempo  in  bianca  donna,  quando  '1  volto 
Suo  si  discarclii  di  vergogna  il  carco." 

What  follows,  respecting  letters  of  the  alphabet  and  the  Roman  eagle,  iii  in  a 
very  diflerent  taste,  though  mixed  with  many  beauties. 

11       '  • 


J46  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


the  Divine  nature  and  government,  and  the  exclusion  from  hea- 
yen  of  goodness  itself,  unless  within  the  Christian  pale. 

The  celestial  bird,  rousing  itself  into  motion  with  delight,  like 
a  falcon  in  the  conscious  energy  of  its  will  and  beauty,  when, 
upon  being  set  free  from  its  hood,  it  glances  above  it  into  the 
air,  and  claps  its  self-congratulating  wings,  answered  neverthe- 
less somewhat  disdainfully,  that  it  was  impossible  for  man,  in  his 
mortal  state,  to  comprehend  such  things  ;  and  that  the  astonish- 
ment he  feels  at  them,  though  doubtless  it  would  be  excusable 
under  other  circumstances,  must  rest  satisfied  with  the  affirma- 
tions of  Scripture. 

The  bird  then  bent  over  its  questioner,  as  a  stork  does  over 
the  nestling  newly  fed  when  it  looks  up  at  her,  and  then  wheel- 
ing round,  and  renewing  its  warble,  concluded  it  with  saying, 
"  As  my  notes  are  to  thee  that  understandest  them  not,  so  are  the 
judgments  of  the  Eternal  to  thine  earthly  brethren.  None  ever 
yet  ascended  into  these  heavenly  regions  that  did  not  believe  in 
Christ,  either  after  he  was  crucified  or  before  it.  Yet  many, 
who  call  Christ !  Christ !  shall  at  the  last  day  be  found  less  near 
to  him  than  such  as  knew  him  not.  What  shall  the  kings  of 
Islam  say  to  your  Christian  kings,  when  they  see  the  book  of 
judgment  opened,  and  hear  all  that  is  set  down  in  it  to  their  dis- 
honour ?  In  that  book  shall  be  read  the  desolation  which  Albert . 
will   inflict  on  Bohemia  :* — in  that  book,  the  woes  inflicted  on 

*  The  emperor  Albert  the  First,  when  he  obtained  Bohemia  for  his  son 
Rodolph.  Of  the  sovereigns  that  follow,  he  who  adulterated  his  people's 
money,  and  died  by  the  "  hog's  teeth"  (a  wild  boar  in  hunting),  is  the  French 
king,  Philip  the  Fourth ;  the  quarrelling  fools  of  England  and  Scotland  are 
Edward  the  First  and  Baliol ;  the  luxurious  Spaniard  is  Ferdinand  the  Fourth, 
said  to  have  killed  iiiniself  in  his  youth  by  intemperance  ;  the  eifeminate  Bo- 
hemian, Winceslaus  the  Second  ;  the  "  lame  wretch  of  Jerusalem,"  Charles 
the  Second  of  Naples,  titular  king  of  Jerusalem  ;  the  cowardly  warder  of  the 
Isle  of  Fire  (Sicily),  Frederick  of  the  house  of  Arragon  ;  his  filthy  brother  and 
uncle,  James  of  Arragon  and  James  of  Minorca  ;  the  Portuguese  (according 
to  the  probable  guess  of  Cary),  the  rebellious  son  of  King  Dionysius  ;  the  Nor- 
wegian, Ilaco;  and  the  Dalmatian,  Wladislaus,  but  why  thus  accused,  not 
known.  Aa  to  Hungary,  its  crown  was  then  disputed  by  rival  princes  ;  Na- 
varre was  thinking  of  shakiu|[  off  the  yoke  of  France  ;  and  Nicosia  and 
Famagosta,  in  Cyprus,  were  complaining  of  their  feeble  sovereign,  Henry  the 
Second. 


il 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HEAVEN.        147 

Paris  by  that  adulterator  of  his  kingdom's  money,  who  shall  die 
by  the  hog's  teeth  : — in  that  book,  the  ambition  which  makes 
such  mad  fools  of  the  Scotch  and  English  kings,  that  they  cannot 
keep  within  their  bounds  : — in  that  book,  the  luxury  of  the  Span- 
iard, and  the  effeminate  life  of  the  Bohemian,  who  neither  knows 
nor  cares  for  any  thing  worthy  : — in  that  book,  the  lame  wretch 
of  Jerusalem,  whose  value  will  be  expressed  by  a  unit,  and  his 
worthlessness  by  a  million  : — in  that  book,  the  avarice  and  cow- 
ardice of  the  warder  of  the  Isle  of  Fire,  in  which  old  Anchises 
died  ;  and  that  the  record  may  answer  the  better  to  his  abundant 
littleness,  the  writing  shall  be  in  short-hand  ;  and  his  uncle's  and 
his  brother's  filthy  doings  shall  be  read  in  that  book — they  who 
have  made  such  rottenness  of  a  good  old  house  and  two  diadems ; 
and  there  also  shall  the  Portuguese  and  the  Norwegian  be  known 
for  what  they  are,  and  the  coiner  of  Dalmatia,  who  beheld  with 
such  covetous  eyes  the  Venetian  ducat.  O  blessed  Hungary, 
if  thou  wouldst  resolve  to  endure  no  longer  ! — O  blessed  Na- 
varre, if  thou  wouldst  but  keep  out  the  Frenchman  with  thy  moun- 
tain walls  !  May  the  cries  and  groans  of  Nicosia  and  Famagosta 
be  an  earnest  of  those  happier  days,  proclaiming  as  they  do  the 
vile  habits  of  the  beast,  who  keeps  so  close  in  the  path  of  the  herd 
his  brethren." 

The  blessed  bird  for  a  moment  was  silent ;  but  as,  at  the  going 
down  of  the  sun,  the  heavens  are  darkened,  and  then  break  forth 
into  innumerable  stars  which  the  sun  lights  up,*  so  the  splen- 
dours within  the  figure  of  the  bird  suddenly  became  more  splen- 
did, and  broke  forth  into  songs  too  beautiful  for  mortal  to  re- 
member. 

O  dulcet  love,  that  dost  shew  thee  forth  in  smiles,  how  ardent 
was  thy  manifestation  in  the  lustrous  sparkles  which  arose  out 
of  the  mere  thoughts  of  those  pious  hearts  ! 

After  the  gems  in  that  glittering  figure  had  ceased  chiming 
their  angelic  songs,  the  poet  seemed  to  hear  the  murmur  of  a 
river  which  comes  falling  from  rock  to  rock,  and  shews,  by  the 
fulness  of  its  tone,  the  abundance  of  its  mountain  spring ;  and  as 
the  sound  of  the  guitar  is  modulated  on  the  neck  of  it,  and  the 

*  The  opinion  in  th«  time  of  Dante. 


148  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


breath  of  the  pipe  is  accordant  to  the  spiracle  from  which  it  is- 
sues so  the  murmuring  within  the  eagle  suddenly  took  voice, 
and,  risino-  througli  the  neck,  again  issued  forth  in  words.  The 
bird  now  bade  the  poet  fix  his  attention  on  its  eye  ;  because,  of 
all  the  fires  that  composed  its  figure,  those  that  sparkled  in  the 
eye  were  the  noblest.  The  spirit  (it  said)  which  Dante  beheld 
in  the  pupil  was  that  of  the  royal  singer  who  danced  before  the 
ark,  now  enjoying  the  reward  of  his  superiority  to  vulgar  dis- 
cernment. Of  the  five  spirits  that  composed  the  eyebrow,  the  one 
nearest  the  beak  was  Trajan,  now  experienced  above  all  others  in 
the  knowledge  of  what  it  costs  not  to  follow  Christ,  by  reason  of  his 
having  been  in  hell  before  he  was  translated  to  heaven.  Next  to 
Trajan  wa§  Hezekiah,  whose  penitence  delayed  for  him  the  hour  of 
his  death :  next  Hezekiah,  Constantino,  though,  in  letting  the  pope 
become  a  prince  instead  of  a  pastor,  he  had  unwittingly  brought  de- 
struction on  the  world  :  next  Constantino,  William  the  Good  of  Si- 
cily, whose  death  is  not  more  lamented  than  the  lives  of  those  who 
contest  his  crown  :  and  lastly,  next  William,  Riphseus  the  Tro- 
jan. "  What  erring  mortal,"  cried  the  bird,  "  would  believe  it 
possible  to  find  Riphceus  the  Trojan  among  the  blest  ? — but  so  it 
is  ;  and  he  now  knows  more  respecting  the  divine  grace  than 
mortals  do,  though  even  he  discerns  it  not  to  the  depth."* 

The  bird  again  relapsing  into  silence,  appeared  to  repose  on 
the  happiness  of  its  thoughts,  like  the  lark  which,  after  quiver- 
ing and  expatiating  through  all  its  airy  warble,  becomes  mute  and 
content,  having  satisfied  its  soul  to  the  last  drop  of  its  sweetness. f 

*  All  this  part  about  the  eagle,  who,  it  seems,  is  beheld  only  in  profile,  and 
who  bids  the  poet  "  mind  his  eye,"  in  the  pupil  of  which  is  King  David,  while 
the  eyebrow  consists  of  orthodox  sovereigns,  including  Riphaeus  the  Trojan,  is 
irresistibly  ludicrous.  No  consideration  can  or  ought  to  hinder  us  from  laugh- 
ing at  it.  It  was  mere  party-will  in  Dante  to  lug  it  in  ;  and  his  perverseness 
injured  his  fancy,  as  it  deserved. 

In  the  next  passage  the  real  poet  resumes  himself,  and  with  what  relief  to 
one's  feelings ! 

t  Most  beautiful  is  this  simile  of  the  lark  : 

"  Qual  lodoletta  che  'n  aere  si  spazia 
Prima  cantando,  e  poi  tace  contenta 
De  r  ultima  dolcezza  che  la  sazia." 

In  the  PentameroTi  and  Pentalogia,  Petrarch  is  made  to  say,  "  All  the 


THE  JOURNEV  THROUGH  HEAVEN.        149 


But  again  Dante  could  not  lielp  speaking,  being  astonished  to 
find  Pairans  in  Heaven  ;  and  once  more  the  celestial  fiirure  in- 
dulgcd  liis  curiosity.  It  told  him  that  Trajan  had  been  delivered 
from  hell,  for  his  love  of  justice,  by  the  prayers  of  St.  Gregory  ; 
and  that  Riphrcus,  for  the  same  reason,  had  been  gifted  with  a 
prophetic  knowledge  of  the  Redemption  ;  and  then  it  ended  with 
a  rapture  on  the  hidden  mysteries  of  Predestination,  and  on  the 
joy  of  ignorance  itself  when  submitting  to  the  divine  will.  The 
Iwo  blessed  spirits,  meanwhile,  whom  the  bird  mentioned,  like 
the  fingers  of  sweet  lutenist  to  sweet  singer,  when  they  quiver  to 
his  warble  as  it  goes,  manifested  the  delight  they  experienced  by 
movements  of  accord  simultaneous  as  the  twinkling  of  two 
eyes/'' 

Dante  turned  to  receive  his  own  final  delight  from  the  eyes  of 
Beatrice,  and  he  found  it,  though  the  customary  smile  on  her  face 
was  no  longer  there.  She  told  him  that  her  beauty  increased 
with  such  intensity  at  every  fresh  ascent  among  the  stars,  that  he 
would  no  longer  have  been  able  to  bear  the  smile ;  and  they 
were  now  in  the  seventh  Heaven,  or  the  planet  Saturn,  the  re- 
treat of  those  who  had  passed  their  lives  in  Holy  Contemplation. 

verses  that  ever  were  written  on  the  nightingale  are  scarcely  worth  the  beauti- 
ful triad  oi'  this  divine  poet  on  the  lark  [and  then  he  repeats  them].  In  the 
first  of  them,  do  jou  not  see  the  trembling  of  her  wings  against  the  sky?  As 
often  as  I  repeat  them,  my  ear  is  satisfied,  my  heart  (like  hers)  contented. 

"  Boccaccio. — I  agree  with  you  in  the  perfect  and  unrivalled  beauty  of  the 
first  ;  but  in  the  tiiird  there  is  a  redundance.  Is  not  conterita  quite  enough 
without  che  la  sazia  ?  The  picture  is  before  us, the  sentiment  within  us;  and, 
behold,  we  kick  when  we  are  full  of  manna. 

"  Petrarch. — I  acknowledge  the  correctness  and  propriety  of  your  remark  ; 
and  yet  beauties  in  poetry  must  be  examined  as  carefully  as  blemishes,  and 
even  more." — p.  92. 

Perhaps  Duute  would  have  argued  that  sazia  expresses  the  sa  'ety  itself,  so 
that  the  very  superfluousness  becomes  a  propriety. 

*       "  E  come  a  buon  cantor  buon  citarista 
Fa  seguitar  lo  guizzo  de  la  corda 
In  che  pill  di  piacer  lo  canto  acquista  ; 

Si,  mt'utre  che  parlC),  mi  si  ricorda, 
Ch'  io  vidi  le  duo  luci  benedette, 
I'ur  come  batter  d'  occhi  si  concorda, 

Con  le  parole  muover  le  fiammette." 


150  THE  ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S    PROGRESS. 


In  this  crystal  sphere,  called  after  the  name  of  the  monarch 
who  reigned  over  the  Age  of  Innocence,  Dante  looked  up,  and 
beheld  a  ladder,  the  hue  of  which  was  like  gold  when  the  sun 
glisters  it,  and  the  height  so  great  that  its  top  was  out  of  sight ; 
and  down  the  steps  of  this  ladder  he  saw  coming  such  multitudes 
of  shining  spirits,  that  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  lights  of  heaven 
must  have  been  there  poured  forth  ;  but  not  a  sound  was  in  the 
whole  splendour.  It  was  spared  to  the  poet  for  the  same  reason 
that  he  missed  the  smile  of  Beatrice.  When  they  came  to  a  cer- 
tain step  in  the  ladder,  some  of  the  spirits  flew  off  it  in  circles  or 
other  careers,  like  rooks  when  they  issue  from  their  trees  in  the 
morning  to  dry  their  feathers  in  the  sun,  part  of  them  going  away 
without  returning,  others  returning  to  the  point  they  left,  and 
others  contenting  themselves  with  flying  round  about  it.  One  of 
them  came  so  near  Dante  and  Beatrice,  and  brightened  with  such 
ardour,  that  the  poet  saw  it  was  done  in  affection  towards  them, 
and  begged  the  loving  spirit  to  tell  them  who  it  was. 

"  Between  the  two  coasts  of  Italy,"  said  the  spirit,  "  and  not 
far  from  thine  own  country,  the  stony  mountains  ascend  into  a 
ridge  so  lofty  that  the  thunder  rolls  beneath  it.  Catria  is  its 
name.  Beneath  it  is  a  consecrated  cell  ;  and  in  that  cell  I  was 
called  Pietro  Damiano.*  I  so  devoted  myself  to  the  service  of 
God,  that  with  no  other  sustenance  than  the  juice  of  the  olive,  I 
forgot  both  heat  and  cold,  happy  in  heavenly  meditation.  That 
cloister  made  abundant  returns  in  its  season  to  these  granaries  of 
the  Lord ;  but  so  idle  has  it  become  now,  that  it  is  fit  the  world 
should  know  its  barrenness.  The  days  of  my  mortal  life  were 
drawing  to  a  close,  when  I  was  besought  and  drawn  into  wearing 
the  hat  which  descends  every  day  from  bad  head  to  worse. f  St. 
Peter  and  St.  Paul  came  lean  and  barefoot,  getting  their  bread 
where  they  could ;  but  pastors  now-a-days  must  be  lifted  from 

*  A  corrector  of  clerical  abuses,  who,  thoiTgh  a  cardinal,  and  much  employed 
in  public  affairs,  preferred  the  simplicity  of  a  private  life.  He  has  left  writings, 
the  eloquence  of  which,  according  to  Tiraboschi,  is  "  worthy  of  a  better  age." 
Petrarch  also  makes  honourable  mention  of  him.  See  Cary,  ut  sup.  p.  169- 
Dante  lived  a  good  while  in  the  monastery  of  Catria,  and  is  said  to  have  fin- 
ished his  poem  there. — Lomhardi  in  loc.  vol.  iii.  p.  547. 

t  The  cardinal's  hat. 


I 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HEAVEN.  151 


the  ground,  uiul  liuvc  usliers  going  before  them,  and  train-bearers 
behind  them,  and  ride  upon  palfreys  covered  witli  tiieir  spreading 
mantles,  so  that  two  beasts  go  under  one  skin.*  O  Lord,  how 
long  !" 

At  these  words  Dante  saw  more  splendours  come  pourinfr  down 
the  ladder,  and  wheel  round  and  round,  and  become  at  every 
wheel  more  beautifuL  The  whole  dazzling  body  then  gathered 
round  the  indignant  speaker,  and  shouted  something  in  a  voice  so 
tremendous,  that  the  poet  could  liken  it  to  nothing  on  earth.  The 
thunder  was  so  overwhelming,  that  he  did  not  even  hear  what 
they  said.f 

Pallid  and  stunned,  he  turned  in  affright  to  Beatrice,  who  com- 
forted him  as  a  mother  comforts  a  child  that  wants  breath  to 
speak.  The  shout  was  prophetic  of  the  vengeance  about  to  over- 
take the  Church.  Beatrice  then  directed  his  attention  to  a  multi- 
tude of  small  orbs,  which  increased  one  another's  beauty  by  inter- 
changing their  splendours.  They  enclosed  the  spirits  of  those 
who  most  combined  meditation  with  love.  One  of  them  was 
Saint  Benedict ;  and  others  Macarius  and  Romoaldo.ij:  The  light 
of  St.  Benedict  issued  forth  from  among  its  companions  to  ad- 
dress the  poet ;  and  after  explaining  how  its  occupant  was  unable 
farther  to  disclose  himself,  inveighed  against  the  degeneracy  of 
the  religious  orders.  It  then  rejoined  its  fellows,  and  the  whole 
company  clustering  into  one  meteor,  swept  aloft  like  a  whirlwind. 
Beatrice  beckoned  the  poet  to  ascend  after  them.     He   did  so, 

*       "  Si  che  duo  bestie  van  sott'  una  pelle." 

t       "  Dintorno  a  questa  (voce)  venuero  e  fermarsi, 
E  fero  un  grido  di  si  alto  suono, 
Che  non  potrebbe  qui  assomigliarsi : 

N6  io  lo  'ntesi,  si  mi  vinse  il  tuono." 

Around  this  voice  they  flocked,  a  mighty  crowd, 
And  raised  a  shout  so  huge,  that  earthly  wonder 
Knoweth  no  Hkeness  for  a  peal  so  loud ; 

Nor  could  I  hear  the  words,  it  spoke  such  thunder. 

If  a  Longinus  had  written  after  Dante,  he  would  have  put  this  passage  into  his 
treatise  on  the  Sublime. 

t  Benedict,  the  founder  of  the  order  called  after  his  name.     Macarius,  an 
Egj'ptian  monk  and  moralist.     Romoaldo,  founder  of  the  Camaldoli. 


152  THE   ITALIAN   riLGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


gifted  with  tlie  usual  virtue  by  her  eyes ;  and  found  himself  in 
the  twin  light  of  the  Gemini,  the  constellation  that  presided  over 
his  birth.     He  was  now  in  the  region  of  the  fixed  stars. 

"  Tliou  art  now,"  said  his  guide,  "  so  near  the  summit  of  thy 
prayers,  that  it  behoves  thee  to  take  a  last  look  at  things  below 
thee,  and  see  how  little  they  should  account  in  thine  eyes." 
Dante  turned  his  eyes  downwards  through  all  the  seven  spheres, 
and  saw  the  earth  so  diminutive,  that  he  smiled  at  its  miserable 
appearance.  Wisest,  thought  he,  is  the  man  that  esteems  it  least ; 
and  truly  worthy  he  that  sets  his  thoughts  on  the  world  to  come. 
He  now  saw  the  moon  without  those  spots  in  it  which  made  him 
formerly  attribute  the  variation  to  dense  ajid  rare.  He  sustained 
the  brightness  of  the  face  of  the  sun,  and  discerned  all  the  signs 
and  motions  and  relative  distances  of  the  planets.  Finally,  he 
saw,  as  he  rolled  round  with  the  sphere  in  which  he  stood,  and 
by  virtue  of  his  gifted  sight,  the  petty  arena,  from  hill  to  harbour, 
which  filled  his  countrymen  with  such  ferocious  ambition  ;  and 
then  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  sweet  eyes  beside  him.* 

Beatrice  stood  wrapt  in  attention,  looking  earnestly  towards  the 
south,  as  if  she  expected  some  appearance.  She  resembled  the 
bird  that  sits  among  the  dewy  leaves  in  the  darkness  of  night, 

*  The  reader  of  English  poetry  will  be  reminded  of  a  passage  in  Cowley  ; 

"  Lo,  I  mount ;  and  lo, 
How  small  the  biggest  parts  of  earth's  proud  title  shew  ! 

Where  shall  I  find  the  noble  British  land  1 
Lo,  I  at  last  a  northern  speck  espy, 
Which  in  the  sea  does  lie, 
And  seems  a  grain  o'  the  sand. 
For  this  will  any  sin,  or  bleed? 
Of  civil  wars  is  this  the  meed  ? 
And  is  it  this,  alas,  which  we. 
Oh,  irony  of  words  !  do  call  Great  Bx'-ittanie  ?" 

And  he  afterwards,  on  reaching  higher  depths  of  silence,  says  very  finely,  and 
with  a  beautiful  intimation  of  the  all-inclusiveness  of  the  Deity  by  the  use  of 
a  singular  instead  of  a  plural  verb, — 

"Where  am  I  now?  angels  and  God  is  here." 

All  which  follows  in  Dante,  up  to  the  appearance  of  Saint  Peter,  is  full  of 
grandeur  and  loveliness. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HEAVEN.  153 


yearning  for  the  coming  of  the  morning,  that  she  may  again  be- 
hold her  young,  and  have  light  by  which  to  seek  the  food,  that 
renders  her  fatioue  for  thcni  a  iov.  So  stood  Beatrice,  lookinir  ; 
wiiich  caused  Dante  to  watch  in  the  same  direction,  with  the  feel- 
ings of  one  that  is  already  possessed  of  some  new  delight  by  the 
assuredness  of  his  expectation.* 

The  quarter  on  which  they  were  gazing  soon  became  brighter 
and  brighter,  and  Beatrice  exclaimed,  "  Behold  the  armies  of  the 
triumph  of  Christ !"  Her  face  appeared  all  fire,  and  her  eyes 
so  full  of  love,  that  the  poet  could  tind  no  words  to  express  them. 

As  the  moon,  when  the  depths  of  heaven  are  serene  with  her 
fulness,  looks  abroad  smiling  among  her  eternal  handmaids  the 
stars,  that  paint  every  gulf  of  the  great  hollow  with  beauty  ;f  so 
brightest,  above  myriads  of  splendours  around  it,  appeared  a  sun 
which  gave  radiance  to  them  all,  even  as  our  earthly  sun  gives 
light  to  the  constellations. 

''  O  Beatrice  !"'  exclaimed  Dante,  overpowered,  "  sweet  and 
beloved  guide  !" 

"  Overwhelming,"  said  Beatrice,  "  is  the  virtue  with  which 
nothing  can  compare.      What  thou  hast  seen  is  ihc  W'isilom  and 

*       "  Come  r  augello  intra  1'  amate  fronde, 
Posato  al  nido  de'  suoi  dole!  nati 
La  notte  che  le  cose  ci  nasconde, 

Che  per  veder  gVi  aspetti  desiati, 
E  per  trovar  lo  cibo  onde  gli  pasca, 
In  che  i  gravi  labor  gli  sono  aggrati, 

Previene  '1  tempo  in  su  I'  aperta  frasca, 
E  con  ardente  affetto  11  sole  aspetta, 
Fiso  guardando  pur  che  1'  alba  nasca 

Cosi  la  donna  niia  si  stava  eretta 
E  attenta,  involta  in  ver  la  plaga 
Sotto  la  quale  il  sol  mostra  men  frelta: 

Si  che  veggcndola  io  sospcsa  e  vaga, 
Fecimi  quale  6  quei  che  disiando 
Altro  vorria,  e  sperando  s'  appaga." 

t  *'  Quale  ne'  plenilunii  sercni 
Trivia  ride  tra  le  Ninfe  eterne, 
Che  dipingono  '1  ciel  per  tutti  i  scni." 


154  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 

the  Power,  by  whom  the  path  between  heaven  and  earth  has  been 
laid  open."* 

Dante's  soul — like  the  fire  v/hich  falls  to  earth  out  of  the 
swollen  thunder-cloud,  instead  of  rising  -according  to  the  wont  of 
fire — had  grown  too  great  for  his  still  mortal  nature  ;  and  he 
could  afterwards  find  within  him  no  memory  of  what  it  did. 

"Open  thine  eyes,"  said  Beatrice,  "  and  see  me  now  indeed. 
Thou  hast  beheld  things  that  empower  thee  to  sustain  my  smiling." 

Dante,  while  doing  as  he  was  desired,  felt  like  one  who  has 
suddenly  waked  up  from  a  dream,  and  endeavours  in  vain  to  rec- 
ollect it. 

"  Never,"  said  he,  "  can  that  moment  be  erased  from  the  book 
of  the  past.  If  all  the  tongues  were  granted  me  that  were  fed 
with  the  richest  milk  of  Polyhymnia  and  her  sisters,  they 
could  not  express  one  thousandth  part  of  the  beauty  of  that  di- 
vine smile,^  or  of  the  thorough  perfection  which  it  made  of  the 
v/hole  of  her  divine  countenance." 

But  Beatrice  said,  "  Why  dost  thou  so  enamour  thee  of  this 
face,  and  lose  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  guide,  blossoming  beneath 
the  beams  of  Christ  ?  Behold  the  rose,  in  which  the  Word  was 
made  flesh. f  Behold  the  lilies,  by  whose  odour  the  way  of  life 
is  tracked." 

Dante  looked,  and  gave  battle  to  the  sight  with  his  weak  eyes.:}: 
As  flowers  on  a  cloudy  day  in  a  meadow  are  suddenly  lit  up 
by  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  he  beheld  multitudes  of  splendours  ef- 
fulgent with  beaming  rays  that  smote  on  them  from  above,  though 
he  could  not  discern  the  source  of  the  effulgence.  He  had  in- 
voked the  name  of  the  Virgin  when  he  looked  ;  and  the  gracious 
fountain  of  the  light  had  drawn  itself  higher  up  within  the 
heaven,  to  accommodate  the  radiance  to  his  fliculties.  He  then 
beheld  the  Virgin  herself  bodily  present,— her  who  is  fairest  now 
in  heaven,  as  she  was  on  earth ;  and  while  his  eyes  were  being 
painted  with  her  beauty,§  there  fell  on  a  sudden  a  seraphic  ligln 

*  lie  lias  seen  Christ  in  his  own  iinreflected  person. 
1  The  Virgin  Mary. 

^  "  Mi  rendei 

A  la  battaglia  de'  debili  cigli." 

§       "  Ambo  le  luci  mi  dipinse." 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HEAVEN.        155 

from  heaven,  which,  spinning  into  a  circle  as  it  came,  formed  a 
diadem  round  licr  head,  still  spinning,  and  warbling  as  it  spun. 
The  sweetest  melody  that  ever  drew  the  soul  to  it  on  earth  would 
have  seemed  like  the  splitting  of  a  thunder-cloud,  compared  with 
the  music  that  sung  around  the  head  of  that  jewel  of  Paradise.* 

''  I  am  Angelic  Love,"  said  the  light,  "  and  I  spin  for  joy  of 
the  womb  in  which  our  Hope  abided  ;  and  ever,  O  Lady  of 
Heaven,  must  I  thus  attend  thee,  as  long  as  thou  art  pleased  to 
attend  thy  Son,  journeying  in  his  loving-kindness  from  sphere  to 
sphere." 

All  the  other  splendours  now  resounded  the  name  of  Mary. 
The  Virgin  began  ascending  to  pursue  the  path  of  her  Son ; 
and  Dante,  unable  to  endure  her  beauty  as  it  rose,  turned  his 
eyes  to  the  angelical  callers  on  the  name  of  Mary,  who  remained 
yearning  after  her  with  their  hands  outstretched,  as  a  babe  yearns 
after  the  bosom  withdrawn  from  his  lips.  Then  rising  after  her 
themselves,  they  halted  ere  they  went  out  of  sight,  and  sung 
"  O  Queen  of  Heaven"  so  sweetly,  that  the  delight  never  quitted 
the  air. 

A  flame  now  approached  and  thrice  encircled  Beatrice,  singing 
all  the  while  so  divinely,  that  the  poet  could  retain  no  idea  ex- 
pressive of  its  sweetness.  Mortal  imagination  cannot  unfold 
such  wonder.  It  was  Saint  Peter,  whom  she  had  besought  to 
come  down  from  his  higher  sphere,  in  order  to  catechise  and  dis- 
course with  her  companion  on  the  subject  of  faith. 

The  catechising  and  the  discourse  ensued,  and  were  concluded 
by  the  Apostle's  giving  the  poet  the  benediction,  and  encircling 
his  forehead  thrice  with  his  holy  light.  "  So  well,"  says  Dante, 
"  was  he  pleased  with  my  answers. "f 

*       "  Qualiinque  melodia  piii  dolce  suona 
Qua  giu,  e  piii  a  se  1'  anima  tira, 
Parebbe  nube  che  squarciata  tuona, 
Comparata  al  sonar  di  quella  lira 
Onde  si  coronava  il  bel  zaffiro 
Del  quale  il  cicl  piii  chiaro  s'  inzaffira." 

t       "  Benedicendomi  caiitando 

Tre  volte  cinse  me,  si  com'  io  tacqui, 
L'  Apostolico  lume,  al  cui  comando 
Io  avca  detto  ;  si  ncl  dir  gli  piacqui." 


156  THE   ITALIAN    PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


"  If  ever,"  continued  the  Florentine,  "  the  sacred  poem  to 
which  heaven  and  earth  have  set  their  hands,  and  which  for 
years  past  has  wasted  my  flesh  in  the  writing,  shall  prevail 
ao-ainst  the  cruelty  that  shut  me  out  of  the  sweet  fold  in  which  I 
slept  like  a  lamb,  wishing  harm  to  none  but  the  wolves  that  beset 
it, — with  another  voice,  and  in  another  guise  than  now,  will  I  re- 
turn, a  poet,  and  standing  by  the  fount  of  my  baptism,  assume 
the  crown  that  belongs  to  me ;  for  I  there  first  entered  on  the 
faith  which  gives  souls  to  God  ;  and  for  that  faith  did  Peter  thus 
encircle  my  forehead."* 

A  flame  enclosing  Saint  James  now  succeeded  to  that  of  Saint 
Peter,  and  after  greeting  his  predecessor  as  doves  greet  one  an- 
other, murmuring  and  moving  round,  proceeded  to  examine  the 
mortal  visitant  on  the  subject  of  Hope.     The  examination  was 

It  was  this  passage,  and  the  one  that  follows  it,  which  led  Foscolo  to  suspect 
that  Dante  wished  to  lay  claim  to  a  divine  mission  ;  an  opinion  which  has  ex- 
cited great  indignation  among  the  orthodox.  See  his  Discorso  sul  Testo,  ut 
sup.  pp.  64,  77-90  and  335-338  ;  and  the  preface  of  the  Milanese  Editors  to 
the  "  Convito"  of  Dante, — Opere  Minori,  l2mo,  vol  ii.  p.  xvii.  Foscolo's  con- 
jecture seems  hardly  borne  out  by  the  context ;  but  I  think  Dante  had  bold- 
ness and  self-estimation  enough  to  have  advanced  any  claim  whatsoever, 
had  events  turned  out  as  he  expected.  What  man  but  himself  (supposing 
him  the  believer  he  professed  to  be)  would  have  thought  of  thus  making  him- 
self free  of  the  courts  of  Heaven,  and  constituting  St.  Peter  his  applauding 
catechist  I 

*  The  verses  quoted  in  the  preceding  note  conclude  the  twenty-fourth  canto 
of  Paradise  ;  and  those,  of  which  the  passage  just  given  is  a  translation>  com- 
mence the  twenty-fifth  : 

"  Se  mai  continga,  ehe  'I  poema  sacra 
,  Al  quale  ha  posto  mano  e  cielo  e  terra 

Si  che  ni'  ha  fatto  per  piii  anni  macro, 

Vinca  la  crudeltk  che  fuor  mi  serra 
Del  bello  ovile  ov'  io  dormi'  a^nello 
Nimico  a'  lupi  che  gli  danno  guerra  ; 

Con  altra  voce  omai,  con  altro  vello 
Ritornero  poeta,  ed  in  sul  fonte 
Del  niio  battesmo  prender6  '1  capello : 

Perocch^  ne  la  fede  che  fa  conte 
L'  anime  a  Dio,  quiv'  entra'  io,  e  poi 
Pietro  per  lei  s\  mi  girO  la  fronte." 


THE  JOURNEY  THROUGH  HEAVEN.        157 


closed  amidst  resounding  anthems  of  "  Let  their  hope  be  in 
thee;"*  and  a  third  apostolic  flame  ensued,  enclosing  Saint  John, 
who  completed  the  ciftechism  with  the  topic  of  Charity.  Dante 
acquitted  himself  with  skill  throughout ;  the  spheres  resounded 
with  songs  of  •'  Holy,  holy,"  Beatrice  joining  in  the  warble  ;  and 
the  poet  suddenly  found  Adam  beside  him.  The  parent  of  the 
Imman  race  knew  by  intuition  what  his  descendant  wished  to 
learn  of  him  ;  and  manifesting  his  assent  before  he  spoke,  as  an 
animal  sometimes  does  by  movements  and  quiverings  of  the  flesh 
within  its  coat,  corresponding  with  its  good-will,f  told  him,  that 
his  fall  was  not  owing  to  the  fruit  which  he  tasted,  but  to  the  vio- 
lation of  the  injunction  not  to  taste  it ;  that  he  remained  in  the 
Limbo  on  hell-borders  upwards  of  five  thousand  years ;  and  that 
the  language  he  spoke  had  become  obsolete  before  the  days  of 
Nimrod. 

The  gentle  fire  of  Saint  Peter  now  began  to  assume  an  awful 
brightness,  such  as  the  planet  Jupiter  might  assume,  if  Mars  and 
it  were  birds,  and  exchanged  the  colour  of  their  plumage. J  Si- 
lence fell  upon  the  celestial  choristers  ;  and  the  Apostle  spoke 
thus  : 

"  Wonder  not  if  thou  seest  me  change  colour.  Thou  wilt  see, 
while  I  speak,  all  which  is  round  about  us  colour  in  like  manner. 
He  who  usurps  my  place  on  earth, — my  place,  1  say, — ay,  mine, 

*  "  Sperent  in  te."     Psalm  ix.  10.     The  English  version  says,  "  And  they 
that  know  thy  name  will  put  their  trust  in  thee." 

t       "  Tal  volta  un  animal  coverto  broo-lia 
S\  che  1'  alfetto  convien  che  si  paia 
Per  lo  seguir  che  face  a  lui  la  'nvoglia." 

A  natural,  but  strange,  and  surely  not  sufficiently  dignified  image  for  the  occa- 
sion. It  is  difficult  to  be  quite  content  with  a  former  one,  in  which  the  greet- 
ings of  St.  Peter  and  St.  James  are  compared  to  those  of  doves  murmuring 
and  sidling  round  about  one  another  ;  though  Christian  sentiment  may  warrant 
it,  if  we  do  not  too  strongly  present  the  Apostles  to  one's  imagination. 

X  "  Tal  ne  la  sembianza  sua  divenne, 
Qual  diverebbe  Giove,  s'  egli  e  Marte 
Fossero  augelli  e  cambiassersi  pcnne." 

Nobody  who  opened  the  Commedia  for  the  first  time  at  this  fantastical  image 
would  suppose  the  author  was  a  great  poet,  or  expect  the  tremendous  passage 
that  ensues  I 


I 


158  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


— which  before  God  is  now  vacant, — has  converted  the  city  in 
which  my  dust  lies  buried  into  a  common-sewer  of  filth  and 
blood  ;  so  that  the  fiend  who  fell  from  hence  rejoices  himself  down 
there." 

At  these  words  of  the  Apostle  the  whole  face  of  Heaven  was 
covered  with  a  blush,  red  as  dawn  or  sunset ;  and  Beatrice 
changed  colour,  like  a  maiden  that  shrinks  in  alarm  from  the  re- 
port of  blame  in  another.  The  eclipse  was  like  that  which  took 
place  when  the  Supreme  died  upon  the  Cross. 

Saint  Peter  resumed  with  a  voice  not  less  awfully  changed 
than  his  appearance  : 

"  Not  for  the  purpose  of  being  sold  for  money  was  the  spouse 
of  Christ  fed  and  nourished  with  my  blood,  and  with  the  blood  of 
Linus, — the  blood  of  Cletus.  Sextus  did  not  bleed  for  it,  nor 
Pius,  nor  Callixtus,  nor  Urban  ;  men,  for  whose  deaths  all  Chris- 
tendom wept.  They  died  that  souls  might  be  innocent  and  go  to 
Heaven.  Never  was  it  intention  of  ours,  that  the  sitters  in  the 
holy  chair  should  divide  one  half  of  Christendom  against  the 
other  ;  should  turn  my  keys  into  ensigns  of  war  against  the  faith- 
ful ;  and  stamp  my  very  image  upon  mercenary  and  lying  docu- 
ments, which  make  me,  here  in  Heaven,  blush  and  turn  cold  to 
think  of.  Arm  of  God,  why  sleepest  thou  ?  Men  out  of  Gas- 
cony  and  Cahors  are  even  now  making  ready  to  drink  our  blood. 
O  lofty  beginning,  to  what  vile  conclusion  must  thou  come  !  But 
the  high  Providence,  which  made  Scipio  the  sustainer  of  the  Ro- 
man sovereignty  of  the  world,  will  fail  not  its  timely  succour. 
And  thou,  my  son,  that  for  weight  of  thy  mortal  clothing  must 
again  descend  to  earth,  see  thou  that  thou  openest  thy  mouth,  and 
hidest  not  from  others  what  has  not  been  hidden  from  thyself." 

As  wliite  and  thick  as  the  snows  go  streaming  athwart  the  air 
when  the  sun  is  in  Capricorn,  so  the  angelical  spirits  that  had 
been  gathered  in  the  air  of  Saturn  streamed  away  after  the  Apos- 
tie,  as  he  turned  with  the  other  saints  to  depart  ;  and  the  eyes  of 
Dante  followed  them  till  they  became  viewless.* 

«  In  spite  of  the  nnheavenly  nature  of  invective,  of  something  of  a  lurking 
conceit  in  the  making  an  eclipse  out  of  a  blush,  and  in  the  positive  bathos,  and 
I  fear  almost  indecent  irrelevancy  of  the  introduction  of  Beatrice  at  all  on 
Buch  an  occasion,  much  more  under  the  feeble  aspect  of  one  young  lady  blush- 


THE   JOURNEY  TIIROUOri   HEAVEN.  159 


The  divine  eyes  of  Beatrice  recalled  him  to  herself;  and  at 
the  same  instant  the  two  companions  found  themselves  in  the  ninth 
Heaven  or  Primum  Mobile^  the  last  of  the  material  Heavens,  and 
the  mover  of  those  beneath  it. 

Here  he  had  a  glimpse  of  the  divine  essence,  in  likeness  of  a 
point  of  inconceivably  sharp  brightness  enringed  with  the  angelic 
hierarchies.  All  earth,  and  heaven,  and  nature,  hung  from  it. 
Beatrice  explained  many  mysteries  to  him  connected  with  that 
sight :  and  then  vehemently  denounced  the  false  and  foolish  teach- 
ers  that  quit  the  authority  of  the  Bible  for  speculations  of  their 
own,  and  degrade  the  preaching  of  the  gospel  with  ribald  jests, 
and  legends  of  Saint  Anthony  and  his  pig.* 

Returning,  however,  to  more  celestial  thoughts,  her  face  be- 
came so  full  of  beauty,  that  Dante  declares  he  must  cease  to  en- 
deavour  to  speak  of  it,  and  that  he  doubts  whether  the  sight  can 
ever  be  thoroughly  enjoyed  by  any  save  its  Maker. f  Her  look 
carried  him  upward  as  before,  and  he  was  now  in  the  Empyrean, 
or  region  of  Pure  Light ; — of  light  made  of  intellect  full  of 
love  ;  love  of  truth,  full  of  joy  ;  joy,  transcendant  above  all 
sweetness. 

Streams  of  living  radiance  came  rushing  and  flashing  round 
about  him,  swathing  him  with  light,  as  the  lightning  sometimes 
enwraps  and  dashes  against  the  blinded  eyes ;  but  the  light  was 
love  here,  and  instead  of  injuring,  gave  new  power  to  the  object 
it  embraced. 

ing  for  another, — this  scene  altogether  is  a  very  grand  one  ;  and  the  violence 
itself  of  the  holy  invective  awful. 

A  curious  subject  for  reflection  is  here  presented.  What  sort  of  pope  would 
Dante  himself  have  made  ?  Would  he  have  taken  to  the  loving  or  the  hating 
side  of  his  genius  ?  To  the  St.  John  or  the  St.  Peter  of  his  own  poem  ?  St. 
Francis  or  St.  Dominic? — I  am  afraid,  all  things  considered,  we  should  have 
had  in  him  rather  a  Gregory  the  Seventh  or  Julius  the  Second,  than  a  Bene- 
dict the  Eleventh  or  a  Ganganelli.  What  fine  Church-hymns  he  would  have 
written  I 

*  She  does  not  see  (so  blind  is  even  holy  vehemence  !)  that  for  the  same 
reason  the  denouncement  itself  is  out  of  its  place.  The  preachers  brought  St. 
Anthony  and  his  pig  into  their  pulpits  ;  she  brings  them  into  Heaven  I 

t  "  Certo  io  credo 

Che  solo  il  suo  fattor  tutta  la  goda." 


I 


-sejmu'iiB 


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5  THEr 


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JHUs^  MJl^^^  Y  THROUGH  HEAVEN.  161 


mited  with  the  crown,  and  which  ahall  be  occupied  before  thou 
est  tlii«   bridal   feast,  shall    be  seated  tlie  soul  of  the  great 
enry,  who  would  fain  set  Italy  right  beibre  sije  is  prepared  for 
"     The  blind  waywardness  of  wiiich  ye  are  sick   renders  ye 
e  the  bantling  wlio,  while  he  is  dying  of  hunger,  kicks  away 
s  purse.     And   Rome  is  governed  by  one  tliat  cannot  walk  in 
le  same  path  with  such  a  man,  whatever  be  the  road.^     But 
will  not  long  endure  him.     He  will  be  thrust  down  into  tlie 
with  Simon  Magus ;  and  his  feet,  when  he  arrives  there,  will 
ust  down  the  man  of  Alagna  still  lower.'":]: 
In  tlie  form,  then,  of  a  white  rose  tiie  blessed  multitude  of  hu- 
lan  souls  lay  manifest  before  the  eyes  of  the  poet ;  and  now  he 
jserved,  that  the  winged  portion  of  the  blest,  the  angels,  who 
y  up  with  their  wuags  nearer  to  Him  that  fills  them  with  love, 
ime  to  and  fro  upon  the  rose  like  bees  ;  now  descending  into  its 
u-^om,  now  streaming   back   to   the  source  of   their   affection. 
Their  faces  were  all  fire,  their  wings  golden,  their  garments  wiiiier 
*'ian  snow.     Whenever  they  descended  on  the  flower,  they  went 
iiom  fold  to  fold,  fanning  their  loins,  and  communicating    the 
•foace  and  ardour  whicii  tiiey  gathered  as  they  gave.     Dante  be- 
iield  all, — every  flight  and  action  of  the  whole  winged  multitude, 
— witiiout  let  or  shadow  ;  for  he  stood  in  the  region  of  light  it- 
self, and  light  has  no  obstacle  where  it  is  deservedly  vouchsafed. 
'•  Oh,'"  cries  the  poet,  "  if  the  barbarians  that  came  from  the 
north  stood  dumb  with  amazement  to  behold  the  magnificence  of 
Rome,  thinking  they  saw  unearthly  greatness  in   tiie   Lateran, 
what  must  I  have  thought,  v/ho  had  thus  come  from  human  to 
divine,  from  time  to  eternity,  from  the  people    of  Florence  to 
beings  just  and  sane  ?*' 

Dante  stood,  without  a  wish  either  to  speak  or  to  hear.  He  felt 
like  a  pilgrim  who  has  arrived  within  the   place  of  his  devotion, 

*  The  Emperor  Henry  of  Luxembourg.  Dante's  idol  ;  at  the  close  of  whose 
brief  and  inefficient  appearance  in  Italy,  his  hopes  of  restoraiiou  to  liis  country 
\^ere  at  an  end. 

t  Pope  Clement  tlie  Fifth.  Dante's  enemy,  Boniface,  was  now  dead,  and 
of  course  in  Tartarus,  iu  the  red-hot  tomb  which  the  poet  had  prepared  for  him. 

X  Boniface  himself.  Pope  Clement's  red-hot  feet  are  to  thrust  down  Pope 
Boniface  into  a  gulf  still  liotter.  So  says  tlie  gentle  Beatrice  iu  Heaven,  and 
in  the  face  of  all  that  is  angelical  ! 

12 


162  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 

and  who  looks  round  about  him,  hoping  some  day  to  relate  what 
he  sees.  He  gazed  upwards  and  downwards,  and  on  every  side 
round  about,  and  saw  movements  graceful  with  every  truth  of  in- 
nocence, and  faces  full  of  loving  persuasion,  rich  in  their  own 
smiles  and  in  the  light  of  the  smiles  of  others. 

He  turned  to  Beatrice,  but  she  was  gone ; — gone,  as  a  messen- 
ger fi'om  herself  told  him,  to  resume  her  seat  in  the  blessed  rose, 
which  the  messenger  accordingly  pointed  out.  She  sat  in  the 
third  circle  from  the  top,  as  far  from  Dante  as  the  bottom  of  the 
sea  is  from  the  region  of  thunder  ;  and  yet  he  saw  her  as  plainly 
as  if  she  had  been  close  at  hand.  He  addressed  words  to  her  of 
thanks  for  all  she  had  done  for  him,  and  a  hope  for  her  assistance 
after  death  ;   and  she  looked  down  at  him  and  smiled. 

The  messenger  was  St.  Bernard.  He  bade  the  poet  lift  his 
eyes  higher  ;  and  Dante  beheld  the  Virgin  Mary  sitting  above 
the  rose,  in  the  centre  of  an  intense  redness  of  light,  like  another 
dawn.  Thousands  of  angels  were  hanging  buoyant  around  her, 
each  having  its  own  distinct  splendour  and  adornment,  and  all 
were  singing,  and  expressing  heavenly  mirth  ;  and  she  smiled 
on  them  with  such  loveliness,  that  joy  was  i«  the  eyes  of  all  the 
blessed. 

At  Mary's  feet  was  sitting  Eve,  beautiful — she  that  opened  the 
wound  which  Mary  closed  ;  and  at  the  feet  of  Eve  was  Rachel, 
with  Beatrice  ;  and  at  the  feet  of  Rachel  was  Sarah,  and  then 
Judith,  then  Rebecca,  then  Ruth,  ancestress  of  him  out  of  whose 
penitence  came  the  song  of  the  Miserere  ;*  and  so  other  Hebrew 
women,  down  all  the  gradations  of  the  flower,  dividing,  by  the 
line  which  they  made,  the  Christians  who  lived  before  Christ  from 
those  who  lived  after  ;  a  line  which,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
rose,  was  answered  by  a  similar  one  of  Founders  of  the  Church, 
at  the  top  of  whom  was  John  the  Baptist.  The  rose  also  was  di- 
vided horizontally  by  a  step  which  projected  beyond  the  others, 
and  underneath  which,  known  by  the  childishness  of  their  looks 
and  voices,  were  the  souls  of  such  as  were  too  young  to  have  at- 
tained Heaven  by  assistance  of  good  works. 

St.  Bernard  then  directed  his  companion  to  look  again  at  the 

*  David. 


THE  JOURNEY   THROUGH   HEAVEN.  163 


/^irgin,  and  gather  from  her  countenance  the  power  of  Ijeholding 
he  face  of  Christ  as  God.  Her  aspect  was  flooded  with  gladness 
rom  the  spirits  around  her ;  while  the  angel  who  liad  descended 
0  her  on  earth  now  hailed  her  above  with  '-'■  Ave,  Maria  !"  sing- 
Qg  till  the  whole  host  of  Heaven  joined  in  the  song.  St.  Bernard 
hen  prayed  to  her  for  help  to  his  companion's  eyesiglit.  Bea- 
rice,  witli  others  of  the  blest,  was  seen  joining  in  the  prayer, 
heir  hands  stretched  upwards  ;  and  the  Virgin,  after  benignly 
Doking  on  the  petitioners,  gazed  upwards  herself,  shewing  the 
i^ay  with  her  own  eyes  to  the  still  greater  vision.  Dante  then 
Doked  also,  and  beheld  what  he  had  no  words  to  speak,  or  memory 
3  endure. 

He  awoke  as  from  a  dream,  retaining  only  a  sense  of  sweetness 
liat  ever  trickled  to  his  heart. 

Earnestly  praying  afterwards,  however,  that  grace  might  be  so 
ar  vouchsafed  to  a  portion  of  his  recollection,  as  to  enable  him  to 
onvey  to  his  fellow-creatures  one  smallest  glimpse  of  the  glory 
f  what  he  saw,  his  ardour  was  so  emboldened  by  help  of  the  very 
nystery  at  whose  sight  he  must  have  perished  had  he  faltered, 
hat  his  eyes,  unblasted,  attained  to  a  perception  of  the  Sum  of 
nfinitude.  He  beheld,  concentrated  in  one  spot — written  in  one 
olume  of  Love — all  which  is  diffused,  and  can  become  the  sub- 
set of  thought  and  study  throughout  the  universe — all  substance 
.nd  accident  and  mode — all  so  compounded  that  they  become  one 
ight.  He  thought  he  beheld  at  one  and  the  same  time  the  one- 
less  of  this  knot,  and  the  universality  of  all  which  it  implies ; 
•ecause,  when  it  came  to  his  recollection,  his  heart  dilated,  and 
n  the  course  of  one  moment  he  felt  ages  of  impatience  to  speak 
if  it. 

But  thoughts  as  well  as  words  failed  him  :  and  thouorh  ever  af- 
erwards  he  could  no  more  cease  to  yearn  towards  it,  than  he 
:ould  take  defect  for  completion,  or  separate  the  idea  of  happiness 
rom  the  wish  to  attain  it,  still  the  utmost  he  could  say  of  what 
le  remembered  would  fall  as  short  of  right  speech  as  the  sounds 
•f  an  infant's  tongue  while  it  is  murmuring  over  the  nipple  ;  for 
he  more  he  had  looked  at  that  light,  the  more  he  found  in  it  to 
imaze  him,  so  that  his  brain  toiled  with  the  succession  of  the  as- 
onishtnents.      He  saw,  in  the  deep  but  clear  self-subsistence, 


164  THE   ITALIAN   PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS. 


three  circles  of  three  diflcrent  colours  of  the  same  breadth,  one 
of  them  reflecting  one  of  the  others  as  rainbow  does  rainbow. 
and  the  third  consisting  of  a  fire  equally  breathing  from  both.* 

O  eternal  Light !  thou  that  dwellest  in  thyself  alone,  thou  alone 
understandest  thyself,  and  art  by  thyself  understood,  and,  so  un- 
derstanding, thou  laughest  at  thyself,  and  lovest. 

The  second,  or  reflected  circle,  as  it  went  round,  seemed  to 
be  painted  by  its  own  colours  with  the  likeness  of  a  human  face.f 

But  how  this  was  done,  or  how  the  beholder  was  to  express  it,: 
threw  his  mind  into  the  same  state  of  bewilderment  as  the  mathe 
malician  experiences  when  he  vainly  pores  over  the  circle  to  dis- 
cover the  principle  by  which  he  is  to  square  it. 

He  did,  however,  in  a  manner  discern  it.  A  flash  of  light  was 
vouchsafed  him  for  the  purpose  ;  but  the  light  left  him  no  power 
to  impart  the  discernment ;  nor  did  he  feel  any  longer  impatient 
for  the  gift.  Desire  became  absorbed  in  submission,  moving  in 
as  smooth  unison  as  the  particles  of  a  wheel,  with  the  Love 
that  is  the  mover  of  the  sun  and  the  stars.:}: 

*  The  Trinity.  t  The  Incarnation. 

t  In  the  Variorum  edition  of  Dante,  ut  sup.  vol.  iii.  p.  845,  we  are  informed 
thai  a  gentleman  of  Naples,  the  Cavaliere  Giuseppe  de  Cesare,  was  the  first  to 
notice  (not  long  since,  I  presume)  the  curious  circumstance  of  Dante's  having 
terminated  the  three  portions  of  his  poem  with  the  word  "  stars."  He  thinks 
that  it  was  done  as  a  happy  augury  of  life  and  renown  to  the  subject.  The 
literal  intention,  however,  seems  to  have  been  to  shew  us,  how  all  his  aspira- 
tions terminated. 


i 


PULCI; 


(Uritical  Notice  of  Ijis  £ife  anb  (Renins. 


CRITICAL    NOTICE 


OF 


PULCrS  LIFE  AND  GENIUS, 


PuLCi,  who  is  the  first  genuine  romantic  poet,  in  point  of  time, 
after  Dante,  seems,  at  first  sight,  in  the  juxtaposition,  like  farce 
after  tragedy ;  and  indeed,  in  many  parts  of  his  poem,  he  is  not 
only  what  he  seems,  but  follows  his  saturnine  countryman  with  a 
peculiar  propriety  of  contrast,  much  of  his  liveliest  banter  being 
directed  against  the  absurdities  of  Dante's  theology.  But  hasty 
and  most  erroneous  would  be  the  conclusion  that  he  was  nothing; 
but  a  banterer.  He  was  a  true  poet  of  the  mixed  order,  grave 
as  well  as  gay ;  had  a  reflecting  mind,  a  susceptible  and  most 
affectionate  heart ;  and  perhaps  was  never  more  in  earnest  than 
when  he  gave  vent  to  his  dislike  of  bigotry  in  his  most  laughable 
sallies. 

Luigi  Pulci,  son  of  Jacopo  Pulci  and  Brigida  de'  Bardi,  was 
of  a  noble  family,  so  ancient  as  to  be  supposed  to  have  come  from 
France  into  Tuscany  with  his  hero  Charlemagne.  He  was  born 
in  Florence  on  the  3d  of  December,  1431,  and  was  the  youngest 
of  three  brothers,  all  possessed  of  a  poetical  vein,  though  it  did 
not  flow  with  equal  felicity.  Bernardo,  the  eldest,  was  the  ear- 
liest translator  of  the  Eclogues  of  Virgil ;  and  Lucca  wrote  a 
romance  called  the  Ciriffo  Cahaneo,  and  is  commended  for  his 
Heroic  Epistles.  Little  else  is  known  of  these  brothers  ;  and  not 
much  more  of  Luigi  himself,  except  that  he  married  a  lady  of 
the  name  of  Lucrezia  degli  Albizzi ;  journeyed  in  Lombardy 
and  elsewhere  ;  was  one  of  the  most  intimate  friends  of  Lorenzo 
de  Medici  and  his  literary  circle ;  and  apparently  led  a  life  the 


168  PULCI. 

most  delightful  to  a  poet,  always  meditating  some  composition 
and  buried  in  his  woods  and  gardens.  Nothing  is  known  of  hi; 
latter  days.  An  unpublished  work  of  little  credit  (Zilioli  On  tin 
Italian  Poets),  and  an  earlier  printed  book,  which,  according  tc 
Tiraboschi,  is  of  not  much  greater  (Scardeone  Be  Antiquitatihm 
Urhis  Patavince),  say  that  he  died  miserably  in  Padua,  and  was 
refused  Christian  burial  on  account  of  his  impieties.  It  is  no' 
improbable  that,  during  the  eclipse  of  the  fortunes  of  the  Medic 
family,  after  the  death  of  Lorenzo,  Pulci  may  have  partaken  of 
its  troubles ;  and  there  is  certainly  no  knowing  how  badly  his  oi 
their  enemies  may  have  treated  him ;  but  miserable  ends  are  e 
favourite  allegation  with  theological  opponents.  The  Calvinists 
affirm  of  their  master,  the  burner  of  Servetus,  that  he  died  like 
a  saint ;  but  I  have  seen  a  biography  in  Italian,  which  attributed 
the  most  horrible  death-bed,  not  only  to  the  atrocious  Genevese, 
but  to  the  genial  Luther,  calling  them  both  the  greatest  villains 
{sceleratissimi) ;  and  adding,  that  one  of  them  (I  forget  which^ 
was  found  dashed  on  the  floor  of  his  bedroom,  and  torn  limb  from 
limb. 

Pulci  appears  to  have  been  slender  in  person,  with  small  eyes 
and  a  ruddy  face.  I  gather  this  from  the  caricature  of  him  in 
the  poetical  paper-war  carried  on  between  him  and  his  friend 
Matteo  Franco,  a  Florentine  canon,  which  is  understood  to  have 
been  all  in  good  humour — sport  to  amuse  their  friends — a  peril- 
ous speculation.  Besides  his  share  in  these  verses,  he  is  sup- 
posed to  have  had  a  hand  in  his  brother's  romance,  and  was 
certainly  the  author  of  some  devout  poems,  and  of  a  burlesque 
panegyric  on  a  country  damsel.  La  Beca,  in  emulation  of  the 
charming  poem  La  Nencia,  the  first  of  its  kind,  written  by  that 
extraordinary  person,  his  illustrious  friend  Lorenzo,  who,  in  the 
midst  of  his  cares  and  glories  as  the  balancer  of  the  power  of 
Italy,  was  one  of  the  liveliest  of  the  native  wits,  and  wrote  songs 
for  the  people  to  dance  to  in  Carnival  time. 

The  intercourse  between  Lorenzo  and  Pulci  was  of  the  most 
familiar  kind.  Pulci  was  sixteen  years  older,  but  of  a  nature 
which  makes  no  such  differences  felt  between  associates.  He 
had  known  Lorenzo  from  the  latter's  youth,  probably  from  his 
birth — is  spoken  of  in  a  tone  of  domestic  intimacy  by  his  wife — 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GEiNlUS.  169 

and  is  enumerated  by  him  among  his  companions  in  a  very  spe- 
cial and  cliaracteristic  manner  in  liis  poem  on  Hawking  (La  Cac- 
cia  col  Falcone),  when,  calling  his  fellow-sportsmen  about  him, 
and  missing  Luigi,  one  of  them  says  that  he  has  strolled  into  a 
neighbouring  wood,  to  put  something  which  has  struck  his  fancy 
into  a  sonnet : 

"  '  Luigi  Piilci  ov'  6,  che  non  si  sente  ?' 

'  Egli  se  n'  and6  dianzi  in  quel  boschetto, 
Che  qualche  fantasia  ha  per  lu  mente  ; 
Vorr  ii  fantasticar  forse  un  sonetto.'  " 

"  And  where's  Luigi  Pulci  ?     I  saw  him." 

•'  Oh,  in  the  wood  there.     Gone,  depend  upon  it, 

To  vent  some  fancy  iu  his  brain — some  whim. 
That  will  not  let  him  rest  till  it's  a  sonnet." 

In  a  letter  written  to  Lorenzo,  when  the  future  statesman,  then 
in  his  seventeenth  year,  was  making  himself  personally  acquaint- 
ed with  the  courts  of  Italy,  Pulci  speaks  of  himself  as  struggling 
hard  to  keep  down  the  poetic  propensity  in  his  friend's  absence. 
*'  If  you  were  with  me,"  he  says,  "  I  should  produce  heaps  of 
sonnets  as  big  as  the  clubs  they  make  of  the  cherry-blossoms  for 
May-day.  I  am  always  muttering  some  verse  or  other  betwixt 
my  teeth ;  but  I  say  to  myself,  '  My  Lorenzo  is  not  here — he 
who  is  my  only  hope  and  refuge  ;'  and  so  I  suppress  it."  Such 
is  the  first,  and  of  a  like  nature  are  the  latest  accounts  we  pos- 
sess of  the  sequestered  though  companionable  poet.  He  prefer- 
red one  congenial  listener  who  understood  him,  to  twenty  critics 
that  were  puzzled  with  the  vivacity  of  his  impulses.  Most  of  the 
learned  men  patronised  by  Lorenzo  probably  quarrelled  with  him 
on  account  of  it,  plaguing  him  in  somewhat  the  same  spirit,  though 
in  more  friendly  guise,  as  the  Delia  Cruscans  and  others  after- 
wards plagued  Tasso  ;  so  he  banters  them  in  turn,  and  takes 
refuge  from  their  critical  rules  and  common-places  in  the  larger 
induljience  of  his  friend  Politian  and  the  laughing  wisdom  of 
Lorenzo. 

"  So  che  andar  dirtito  mi  bisofjna, 
Ch'  io  non  ci  mescolassi  una  bugia, 
Che  questa  non  6  storia  da  menzogna  ; 
Che  come  io  csco  un  passo  do  la  via. 


2  70  PULCL 

Chi  gracchia,  chi  riprende,  e  chi  rampogna : 
Oguim  poi  mi  riesce  la  pazzia ; 
Tanto  clx'  eletto  ho  solitaria  vita, 
Che  la  turba  di  questi  6  infiBita. 

La  mia  Accademia  uii  tempo,  o  mia  Ginnasia, 
E  stata  volentier  ne'  miei  boschetti  ; 
E  puossi  ben  veder  I'  AfFrica  e  1'  Asia : 
Vongon  le  Nmfe  con  lor  canestretti, 
E  portanmi  o  narciso  o  colocasia ; 
E  cos\  fuggo  mille  urban  dispetti : 
Si  ch'  io  non  torno  a'  vostri  Areopaghi, 
Gente  pur  serapre  di  mal  dicer  vaglii." 

"  I  know  I  ought  to  make  no  dereliction 

From  the  straight  path  to  this  side  or  to  that ; 
I  know  the  story  I  relate's  no  fiction, 

And  that  the  moment  that  I  quit  some  flat, 
Folks  are  all  puff,  and  blame,  and  contradiction, 

And  swear  I  never  know  what  I'd  be  at ; 
In  short,  such  crowds,  I  find,  can  mend  one's  poem, 
I  live  retired,  on  purpose  not  to  know  'em. 

Yes,  gentlemen,  my  only  '  Academe,' 

My  sole  '  Gymnasium,'  are  my  woods  and  bowers ;  I 

Of  Afric  and  of  Asia  there  I  dream  ; 

And  the  Nymphs  bring  me  baskets  full  of  flowers, 
Arums,  and  sweet  narcissus  from  the  streq,m  ; 

And  thus  my  Muse  escapeth  your  town-hours  ^| 

And  town-disdains  ;  and  I  eschew  your  bites, 
•     Judges  of  books,  grim  Areopagites."  i 

He  is  here  jesting,  as  Foscolo  has  observed,  on  the  academy  in- 
stituted by  Lorenzo  for  encouraging  the  Greek  language,  doubt- 
less with  the  laughing  approbation  of  the  founder,  who  was  some- 
times not  a  little  troubled  himself  with  the  squabbles  of  his 
literati. 

Our  author  probably  had  good  reason  to  call  his  illustrious 
friend  his  "  refuge."  The  Morgante  Maggiore,  the  work  which 
has  rendered  the  name  of  Pulci  renowned,  was  an  attempt  to 
elevate  the  popular  and  homely  narrative  poetry  chanted  in  the 
streets  into  tlie  dignity  of  a  production  that  should  last.  The 
age  was  in  a  state  of  transition  on  all  points.  The  dogmatic 
authority  of  the  schoolmen  in  matters  of  religion,  which  pre- 


HIS    LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  171 

vailed  in  the  time  of  Dante,  had  come  to  nought  before  the  ad- 
vance  of  knowledge  in  general,  and  the  inditference  of  the  court 
of  Rome.  The  Council  of  Trent,  as  Crescimbeni  advised  the 
critics,  had  not  then  settled  what  Christendom  was  to  believe ; 
and  men,  provided  they  complied  with  forms,  and  admitted  cer- 
tain main  articles,  were  allowed  to  think,  and  even  in  great 
measure  talk,  as  they  pleased.  The  lovers  of  the  Platonic  phi- 
losophy took  the  opportunity  of  exalting  some  of  its  dreams  to  an 
influence,  which  at  one  time  was  supposed  to  threaten  Christian- 
ity itself,  and  which  in  fact  had  already  succeeded  in  affecting 
Christian  theology  to  an  extent  which  the  scorners  of  Paganism 
little  suspect.  Most  of  these  Helenists  pushed  their  admiration 
of  Greek  literature  to  an  excess.  They  were  opposed  by  the 
Yirgilian  predilections  of  Pulci's  friend,  Politian,  who  had  never- 
theless universality  enough  to  sympathise  with  the  delight  the 
other  took  in  their  native  Tuscan,  and  its  liveliest  and  most  idio- 
matic effusions.  From  all  these  circumstances  in  combination 
arose,  first,  Pulci's  determination  to  write  a  poem  of  a  mixed  or- 
der, which  should  retain  for  him  the  ear  of  the  many,  and  at  the 
same  time  give  rise  to  a  poetry  of  romance  worthy  of  higher 
auditors  ;  second,  his  banter  of  what  he  considered  unessential 
and  injurious  dogmas  of  belief,  in  favour  of  those  principles  of 
the  religion  of  charity  which  inflict  no  contradiction  on  the  heart 
and  understanding  ;"  third,  the  trouble  which  seems  to  have  been 
given  him  by  critics,  "  sacred  and  profane,"  in  consequence  of 
these  originalities  ;  and  lastly,  a  doubt  which  has  strangely  ex- 
isted with  some,  as  to  whether  he  intended  to  write  a  serious  or 
a  comic  poem,  or  on  any  one  point  was  in  earnest  at  all.  One 
writer  thinks  he  cannot  have  been  in  earnest,  because  he  opens 
every  canto  with  some  pious  invocation  ;  another  asserts  that  the 
piety  itself  is  a  banter  ;  a  similar  critic  is  of  opinion,  that  to  mix 
levities  with  gravities  proves  the  gravities  to  have  been  nought, 
and  the  levities  all  in  all ;  a  fourth  allows  him  to  have  been  seri- 
ous in  his  description  of  the  battle  of  Roncesvalles,  but  says  he 
was  laughing  in  Ift'ftie  rest  of  his  poem  ;  while  a  fifth  candidly 
gives  up  the  question,  as  one  of  those  puzzles  occasioned  by  the 
caprices  of  the  human  mind,  which  it  is  impossible  for  reasonable 
people  to  solve.     Even  Sismondi,  who  was  well  acquainted  with 


172 


PULCI. 


the  ao-e  in  which  Pulci  wrote,  and  who,  if  not  a  profound,  is  gen- 
erally an  acute  and  liberal  critic,  confesses  himself  to  be  thus 
confounded.  "  Pulci,"  he  says,  "  commences  all  his  cantos  by 
a  sacred  invocation  ;  and  the  interests  of  religion  are  constantly 
interminf^led  with  the  adventures  of  his  story,  in  a  manner  capri- 
cious and  little  instructive.  We  know  not  how  to  reconcile  this 
monkish  spirit  with  the  semi-pagan  character  of  society  under 
Lorenzo  di  Medici,  nor  whether  we  ought  to  accuse  Pulci  of 
gross  bigotry  or  of  profane  derision."*  Sismondi  did  not  con- 
sider that  the  lively  and  impassioned  people  of  the  south  take 
what  may  be  called  household-liberties  with  the  objects  of  their 
worship  greater  than  northerns  can  easily  conceive  ;  that  levity 
of  manner,  therefore,  does  not  always  imply  the  absence  of  the 
gravest  belief;  that,  be  this  as  it  may,  the  belief  may  be  as  grave 
on  some  points  as  light  on  others,  perhaps  the  more  so  for  that 
reason  ;  and  that,  although  some  poems,  like  some  people,  are 
altogether  grave,  or  the  reverse,  there  really  is  such  a  thing  as 
tragi-comedy  both  in  the  world  itself  and  in  the  representations 
of  it.  A  jesting  writer  may  be  quite  as  much  in  earnest  when 
he  professes  to  be  so,  as  a  pleasant  companion  who  feels  for  his 
own  or  for  other  people's  misfortunes,  and  who  is  perhaps  obliged 
to  affect  or  resort  to  his  very  pleasantry  sometimes,  because  he 
feels  more  acutely  than  the  gravest.  The  sources  of  tears  and 
smiles  lie  close  to,  ay  and  help  to  refine  one  another.  If  Dante 
had  been  capable  of  more  levity,  he  would  have  been  guilty  of 
less  melancholy  absurdities.     If  Rabelais  had  been  able  to  v/eep 

*  Literature  of  the  South,  of  Europe,  Thomas  Roscoe's  Translation,  vol.  ii. 
p.  54.  For  the  opinions  of  other  writers,  here  and  elsewhere  alluded  to,  see 
Tiraboschi  (who  is  quite  frightened  at  him),  Storia  della  Poesia  ItaUana,  cap. 
V.  sect.  25 ;  Gravina,  who  is  more  so,  Della  Ragion  Poetica  (quoted  in  Gin- 
gu6n6,  as  below)  ;  Crescimbeni,  Commentari  Intorno  alV  Istoria  della  Poesia, 
&.C.  lib.  vi.  cup.  3  (Mathias's  edition),  and  the  biographical  additions  to  the 
Bame  work,  4to,  Rome,  1710,  vol.  ii.  part  ii.  p.  151,  where  he  says  that  Pulci 
was  perhaps  the  "  modestest  and  most  temperate  writer"  of  his  age  ("  il  piii 
modesto  e  moderato") ;  Ginguune,  Histoire  Litttraire^Italie,  torn  iv.  p.  214  ; 
Foscolo,  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  as  further  on  ;  Panizzi  on  the  Romantic 
Poetry  of  the  Italians,  ditto ;  Stebbing,  Lives  of  the  Italian  Poets,  second 
edition,  vol.  i. ;  and  the  first  volume  of  Lives  of  Literary  and  Scientific  Men, 
in  Lardner's  Cyclopoedia. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  173 

as  well  as  to  laugh,  und  to  love  as  well  as  to  be  licentious,  ho 
would  have  had  faith  and  therefore  support  in  something  earnest, 
and  not  have  been  obliged  to  place  the  consummation  of  all  things 
in  a  wine-bottle.  People's  evcry-day  experiences  might  explain 
to  them  the  greatest  apparent  inconsistencies  of  Pulci's  muse,  if 
habit  itself  did  not  blind  them  to  the  illustration.  Was  nobody 
ever  present  in  a  well-ordered  family,  when  a  lively  conversation 
having  been  interrupted  by  the  announcement  of  dinner,  the  com- 
pany, after  listening  with  the  greatest  seriousness  to  a  grace  de- 
livered with  equal  seriousness,  perhaps  by  a  clergyman,  resumed 
it  the  instant  afterwards  in  all  its  gaiety,  with  the  first  spoonful 
of  soup  ?  Well,  the  sacred  invocations  at  the  beginning  of  Pul- 
ci's cantos  were  compliances  of  the  like  sort  with  a  custom. 
They  were  recited  and  listened  to  just  as  gravely  at  Lorenzo  di 
Medici's  table  ;  and  yet  neither  compromised  the  reciters,  nor 
were  at  all  associated  with  the  enjoyment  of  the  fare  that  ensued. 
So  with  regard  to  the  intermixture  of  grave  and  gay  throughout 
the  poem.  How  many  campaigning  adventures  have  been  writ- 
ten by  gallant  officers,  whose  animal  spirits  saw  food  for  gaiety 
in  half  the  circumstances  that  occurred,  and  who  could  crack  a 
jest  and  a  helmet  perhaps  with  almost  equal  vivacity,  and  yet  be 
as  serious  as  the  gravest  at  a  moment's  notice,  mourn  heartily 
over  the  deaths  of  their  friends,  and  shudder  with  indignation 
and  horror  at  the  outrages  committed  in  a  captured  city  ?  It  is 
thus  that  Pulci  writes,  full  no  less  of  feeling  than  of  whim  and 
mirth.  And  the  whole  honest  round  of  humanity  not  only  war- 
rants his  plan,  but  in  the  twofold  sense  of  the  word  embraces  it. 

If  any  thing  more  were  necessary  to  shew  the  gravity  with 
which  our  author  addressed  himself  to  his  subject,  it  is  the  fact, 
related  by  himself,  of  its  having  been  recommended  to  him  by 
Lorenzo's  mother,  Lucrezia  Tornabuoni,  a  good  and  earnest  wo- 
man, herself  a  poetess,  who  wrote  a  number  of  sacred  narratives, 
and  whose  virtues  he  more  than  once  records  with  the  greatest 
respect  and  tenderness.  The  Morgante  concludes  with  an  ad- 
dress respecting  tUis  lady  to  the  Virgin,  and  with  a  hope  that  her 
"  devout  and  sincere"  spirit  may  obtain  peace  for  him  in  Para- 
dise. These  are  the  last  words  in  the  book.  Is  it  credible  that 
expressions  of  this  kind,   and  employed  on  such  an   occasion, 


174  PULCI. 

could  liave  had  no  serious  meaning  ?  or  that  Lorenzo  listened  to 
such  praises  of  his  mother  as  to  a  jest  ? 

I  have  no  doubt  that,  making  allowance  for  the  age  in  which 
he  lived,  Pulci  was  an  excellent  Christian.  His  orthodoxy,  it  is 
true,  was  not  the  orthodoxy  of  the  times  of  Dante  or  St.  Dominic, 
nor  yet  of  that  of  the  Council  of  Trent.  His  opinions  respect- 
ing the  mystery  of  the  Trinity  appear  to  have  been  more  like 
those  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  than  of  Archdeacon  Travis.  And  as- 
suredly he  agreed  with  Origen  respecting  eternal  punishment, 
rather  than  with  Calvin  and  Mr.  Toplady.  But  a  man  may  ac- 
cord with  Newton,  and  yet  be  thought  not  unworthy  of  the 
"  starry  spheres."  He  may  think,  with  Origen,  that  God  in- 
tends all  his  creatures  to  be  ultimately  happy,*  and  yet  be  con- 
sidered as  loving  a  follower  of  Christ  as  a  "  dealer  of  damnation 
round  the  land,"  or  the  burner  of  a  fellow-creature. 

Pulci  was  in  advance  of  his  time  on  more  subjects  than  one. 
He  pronounced  the  existence  of  a  new  and  inhabited  world,  be- 
fore the  appearance  of  Columbus. f  He  made  the  conclusion, 
doubtless,  as  Columbus  did,  from  the  speculations  of  more  scien- 
tific men,  and  the  rumours  of  seamen ;  but  how  rare  are  the 
minds  that  are  foremost  to  throw  aside  even  the  most  innocent 
prejudices,  and  anticipate  the  enlargements  of  the  public  mind ! 
How  many  also  are  calumniated  and  persecuted  for  so  doing, 
whose  memories,  for  the  same  identical  reason,  are  loved,  perhaps 
adored,  by  the  descendants  of  the  calumniators  !  In  a  public  li- 
brary, in  Pulci's  native  place,  is  preserved  a  little  withered  relic, 
to  which  the  attention  of  the  visitor  is  drawn  with  reverential 
complacency.  It  stands,  pointing  upwards,  under  a  glass-case, 
looking  like  a  mysterious  bit  of  parchment ;  and  is  the  finger  of 
Galileo ;  of  that  Galileo,  whose  hand,  possessing  that  finger,  is 
supposed  to  have  been  tortured  by  the  Inquisition  for  writing 
what  every  one  now  believes.  He  was  certainly  persecuted  and 
imprisoned  by  the  Inquisition.  Milton  saw  and  visited  him  un- 
der the  restraint  of  that  scientific  body  in  his  own  house.  Yet 
Galileo  did  more  by  his  disclosures  of  the  star&,towards  elevating 

*  Canto  XXV.    The  passage  will  be  found  in  the  present  volume, 
t  Id.    And  tills  also. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   CJKNIUS.  175 

our  ideas  of  the  Creator,  than  all  the  so-called  saints  and  polemics 
that  screamed  at  one  another  in  the  pulpits  of  East  and  West. 

Like  the  Commedia  of  Dante,  Pulci's  "  Commedia"  (for  such 
also  in  regard  to  its  general  cheerfulness,*  and  probably  to  its 
mediocrity  of  style,  he  calls  it)  is  a  representative  in  great  mea- 
sure of  the  feeling  and  knowledge  of  his  time  ;  and  though  not 
entirely  such  in  a  learned  and  eclectic  sense,  and  not  to  be  com- 
pared to  that  sublime  monstrosity  in  point  of  genius  and  power, 
is  as  superior  to  it  in  liberal  opinion  and  in  a  certain  pervading 
lovingness,  as  the  author's  aifectionate  disposition,  and  his  coun- 
try's advance  in  civilisation,  combined  to  render  it.  The  editor 
of  the  Parnaso  Italiano  had  reason  to  notice  this  engaging  per- 
sonal character  in  our  author's  work.  He  says,  speaking  of  the 
principal  romantic  poets  of  Italy,  that  the  reader  will  "  admire 
Tasso,  will  adore  Ariosto,  but  will  love  Pulci."f  And  all  minds, 
in  which  lovingness  produces  love,  will  agree  with  him. 

The  Morganie  Maggiore  is  a  history  of  the  fabulous  exploits 
and  death  of  Orlando,  the  great  hero  of  Italian  romance,  and  of 
the  wars  and  calamities  brought  on  his  fellow  Paladins  and  their 
sovereign  Charlemagne  by  the  envy,  ambition,  and  treachery  of 
the  misguided  monarch's  favourite,  Gan  of  Maganza  (Mayence), 
Count  of  Poictiers.  It  is  founded  on  the  pseudo-history  of  Arch- 
bishop Turpin,  which,  though  it  received  the  formal  sanction  of 
the  Church,  is  a  manifest  forgery,  and  became  such  a  jest  with 
the  wits,  that  they  took  a  delight  in  palming  upon  it  their  most 
incredible  fictions.  The  title  {Morganie  the  Great)  seems  to  have 
been  either  a  whim  to  draw  attention  to  an  old  subject,  or  the  re- 
sult of  an  intention  to  do  more  with  the  giant  so  called  than  took 
place  ;  for  though  he  is  a  conspicuous  actor  in  the  earlier  part  of 
the  poem,  he  dies  when  it  is  not  much  more  than  half  completed. 

*  Canto  xxvii.  stanza  2. 

"  S'  altro  ajuto  qui  non  si  dimostra, 
Sara,  pur  tragedia  la  istoria  nostra. 

Ed  io  pur  commedia  pensato  avea 
Iscriver  del  niio  Carlo  finalmente, 
Ed  Alcuin  cosl  mi  promettea,"  &c. 

+  ••  lu  Hue  tu  adorerai  I' Ariosto,  tu  ammirerei  11  Tasso,  ma  tu  amerai  il 
rulci." — Parn.  Ital.  vol.  ix.  p.  344. 


176  PULCI. 

Orlando,  the  champion  of  the  faith,  is  the  real  hero  of  it,  and 
Gan  the  anti-hero  or  vice.  Charlemagne,  the  reader  hardly 
need  be  told,  is  represented,  for  the  most  part,  as  a  very  different 
person  from  what  he  appears  in  history.  In  truth,  as  Ellis  and 
Panizzi  have  shewn,  he  is  either  an  exaggeration  (still  iTiisrepre- 
sented)  of  Charles  Martel,  the  Armorican  chieftan,  who  conquer- 
ed the  Saracens  at  Poictiers,  or  a  concretion  of  all  the  Charleses 
of  the  Carlovingian  race,  wise  and  simple,  potent  and  weak.** 

The  story  may  be  thus  briefly  told.  Orlando  quits  the  €iourt 
of  Charlemagne  in  disgust,  but  is  always  ready  to  return  fo  it 
when  the  emperor  needs  his  help.  Th6  best  Paladins  follow,  to 
seek  him.  He  meets  with  and  converts  the  giant  Morgante, 
whose  aid  he  receives  in  many  adventures,  aiTiong  which  is  the 
taking  of  Babylon.  The  other  Paladins,  his  cousin  Rinaldo  es- 
pecially, have  their  separate  adventures,  all  more  or  less  mixed 
up  with  the  treacheries  and  thanklessness  of .  Gan  (for  they  assist 
even  him),  and  the  provoking  trust  reposed  in  him  by  Charle- 
magne ;  and  at  length  the  villain  crowns  his  infamy  by  luring 
Orlando  with  most  of  the  Paladins  into  the  pass  of  Roncesvalles, 
where  the  hero  himself  and  almost  all  his  companions  are  slain 
by  the  armies  of  Gan's  fellow-traitor,  ]\{arsilius,  king  of  Spain. 
They  die,  however,  victorious  ;  and  the  two  royal  and  noble  scoun- 
drels, by  a  piece  of  prosaical  justice  better  than  poetical,  are  des- 
patched like  common  malefactors  with  a  halter. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  pure  invention  in  the  whole  of  this  en- 
largement of  old  ballads  and  chronicles,  except  the  characters  of 
another  giant,  and  of  a  rebel  angel ;  for  even  Morgante's  history, 
though  told  in  a  very  different  manner,  has  its  prototype  in  the 
fictions  of  the  pretended  archbishop. f     The  Paladins  are  well  dis- 

*  Ellis's  Specimens  of  Early  English  Poetical  Romances,  vol.  ii.  p.  287  ; 
and  Panizzi's  Essay  on  the  Romantic  Narrative  Poetry  of  the  Italians,  in  his 
edition  of  Boiardo  and  Ariosto,  vol.  i.  p.  113. 

t  De  Vita  Caroli  Magni  et  Rolandi  Historia,  &c.  cap.  xviii.  p.  39  (Ciam- 
pi's  edition).  The  giant  in  Turpin  is  named  Ferracutus,  or  Fergus.  He  was 
of  the  race  of  Goliath,  had  the  strengtii  of  forty  men,  and  was  twenty  cubits 
higli.  During  the  suspension  of  a  mortal  combat  with  Orlando,  they  discuss 
the  mysteries  of  the  Christian  faith,  which  its  champion  explains  by  a  variety 
of  similes  and  the  most  beautiful  beggings  of  the  question  ;  after  which  the 
giant  stakes  the  credit  of  their  respective  beliefs  on  the  event  of  their  encounter. 


HIS   LIFE   AND    GENIUS.  177 


linguislicd  from  one  another  ;  Orlando  as  foremost  alike  in  prow- 
ess and  magnanimity,  Rinaldo  by  his  vehemence,  llicciardetto  by 
his  amours,  Astolfo  by  an  ostentatious  rashness  and  self-commit- 
tal ;  but  in  all  these  respects  they  appear  to  have  been  made  to 
llie  autlior's  hand.  Neither  does  the  poem  exhibit  any  prevailino- 
torce  of  imagery,  or  of  expression,  apart  from  popular  idiomatic 
j)liraseology ;  still  less,  though  it  has  plenty  of  infernal  mafic, 
does  it  present  us  with  any  magical  enchantments  of  the  alluring 
order,  as  in  Ariosto ;  or  with  love  stories  as  good  as  Boiardo's,  or 
t'vcn  witli  any  of  the  luxuries  of  landscape  and  description  that 
are  to  be  found  in  both  of  those  poets ;  albeit,  in  the  fourteenth 
canto,  there  is  a  lonij  catalomie  raisonne  of  the  whole  animal  crea- 
tion,  which  a  lady  has  worked  for  Rinaldo  on  a  pavilion  of  silk 
and  gold. 

To  these  negative  faults  must  be  added  the  positive  ones  of  too 
many  trifling,  unconnected,  and  uninteresting  incidents  (at  least 
to  readers  who  cannot  taste  the  flavour  of  the  racy  Tuscan 
idiom)  ;  great  occasional  prolixity,  even  in  the  best  as  well  as 
worst  passages,  not  excepting  Orlando's  dying  speeches ;  harsh- 
ness in  spite  of  his  fluency  (according  to  Foscolo),  and  even  bad 
grammar ;  too  many  low  or  over-familiar  forms  of  speech  (so 
the  graver  critics  allege,  though,  perhaps,  from  want  of  animal 
spirits  or  a  more  comprehensive  discernment)  ;  and  lastly  (to  say 
nothing  of  the  question  as  to  the  gravity  or  levity  of  the  theol- 
ogy), the  strange  exhibition  of  whole  successive  stanzas,  contain- 
ijig  as  many  questions  or  affirmations  as  lines,  and  commencing 
each  line  with  the  same  words.  They  meet  the  eye  like  palisa- 
does,  or  a  file  of  soldiers,  and  turn  truth  and  pathos  itself  into  a 
jest.  They  were  most  likely  imitated  from  the  popular  ballads. 
The  following  is  the  order  of  words  in  which  a  young  lady  thinks 
fit  to  complain  of  a  desert,  into  which  she  has  been  carried  away 
by  a  giant.  After  seven  initiatory  O's  addressed  to  her  friends 
and  to  life  in  general,  she  changes  the  key  into  E  : 


"  E"  questa  la  mia  patria  dov'  io  nacqui? 
E'  qucsto  il  mio  palagio  e  '1  mio  castello  ? 
E'  questo  il  iiido  ov'  alcun  tempo  giucqui  ? 
E'  questo  il  padre  e  *1  mio  dolco  fratello? 

13 


178  PULCI. 

E'  questo  il  popol  dov'  io  tanto  piacqui  ? 

E'  questo  il  regno  giusto  antico  e  bello  ? 

E'  questo  il  porto  do  la  mia  salute  ? 

E'  questo  il  premio  d'  ogui  mia  virtute  ?  ' 

Ove  son  or  le  mie  purpuree  veste  ? 

Ove  son  or  le  gemme  e  le  ricchezze  ? 

Ove  son  or  gi^  le  notturne  feste  ? 

Ove  son  or  le  mie  delicatezze? 

Ove  son  or  le  mie  compagne  oneste  ? 

Ove  son  or  le  fuggite  dolcezze? 

Ove  son  or  le  damigelle  mie  ? 

Ove  son,  dico  ?  ome,  non  son  gi^  quie."* 

Is  this  the  country,  then,  where  I  was  born  ? 
Is  this  my  palace,  and  my  castle  this  ? 
Is  this  the  nest  I  woke  in,  every  morn  ? 
Is  this  my  father's  and  my  brother's  kiss  ? 
Is  this  the  land  they  bred  me  to  adorn  ? 
Is  this  the  good  old  bovver  of  all  my  bliss? 
Is  this  the  haven  of  my  youth  and  beauty  ? 
Is  this  the  sure  reward  of  all  my  duty  ? 

Where  now  are  all  my  wardrobes  and  their  treasures  ? 
Where  now  arc  all  my  riches  and  my  rights? 
Where  now  are  all  the  midnight  feasts  and  measures  ? 
Where  now  are  all  the  delicate  delights  ? 
Where  now  are  all  the  partners  of  my  pleasures  ? 
Where  now  are  all  the  sweets  of  sounds  and  sigfhts  ? 
Where  now  are  all  my  maidens  ever  near  ? 
Where,  do  I  say  ?     Alas,  alas,  not  here  ! 

There  are  seven  more  "  where  nows,"  including  lovers,  and 
"  proffered  husbands,"  and  "  romances,"  and  ending  with  the 
startling  question  and  answer. — the  counterpoint  of  the  former 
close, — 

"  Ove  son  1'  aspre  selve  e  i  lupi  adesso 
E  gli  orsi,  e  i  draghi,  e  i  tigri  ?     Son  qui  presso." 

Where  now  are  all  the  woods  and  forests  drear, 
Wolves,  tigers,  bears,  and  dragons  ?     Alas,  here ! 

These  are  all  very  natural  thoughts,  and  such,  no  doubt,  as 
would  actually  pass  tln-ough  the  mind  of  the  young  lady,  in  the 

*  Canto  xix.  st.  21. 


I 


IITS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  172 

candour  of  desolation  ;  but  the  mechanical  iteration  of  her  mode 
of  putting  them  renders  them  irresistibly  ludicrous.  It  reminds 
us  of  the  wager  laid  by  the  poor  queen  in  the  play  of  Richard 
the  Second,  when  she  overhears  the  discourse  of  the  gardener : 

"  My  v/retchedness  unto  a  row  of  pins, 
They'll  talk  of  state." 

Did  Pulci  expect  his  friend  Lorenzo  to  keep  a  grave  face  during 
the  recital  of  these  passages  ?  Or  did  he  flatter  himself  that  the 
comprehensive  mind  of  his  hearer  could  at  one  and  the  same 
time  be  amused  with  the  banter  of  some  old  song  and  the  pathos 
of  the  new  one  ?* 

*  When  a  proper  name  happens  to  be  a  part  of  the  tautology,  the  look  is 
still  more  extraordinary.  Orlando  is  remonstrating  with  Riualdo  on  his  being 
unseasonably  in  love : 

"  Ov'  e,  Rinaldo,  la  tna  gagliardia? 
Ov'  6,  Rinaldo,  il  tuo  somnio  poterc? 
Ov'  6,  Rinaldo,  il  tuo  senno  di  pria  ? 
Ov'  6,  Rinaldo,  il  tuo  antivedere? 
Ov'  e,  Rinaldo,  la  tua  fantasia  ? 
Ov'  b,  Rinaldo,  1'  arme  e  '1  tuo  destriere  ? 
Ov'  6,  Rinaldo,  la  tua  gloria  e  fama? 
Ov'  b,  Rinaldo,  il  tuo  core  ?  a  la  dama." 

Canto  xvl.  st.  50. 

Oh  where,  Rinaldo,  is  thy  gagliardizo? 
Oh  where,  Rinaldo,  is  thy  might  indeed  ? 
Oh  where,  Rinaldo,  thy  repute  for  wise  ? 
Oh  where,  Rinaldo,  thy  sagacious  heed? 
Oh  where,  Rinaldo,  thy  free-thoughted  eyes? 
Oh  where,  Rinaldo,  thy  good  arms  and  steed? 
Oh  where,  Rinaldo,  thy  renown  and  glory? 
Oh  where,  Riualdo,  thou  ? — In  a  love-story. 

The  incessant  repetition  of  the  names  in  the  burdens  of  modem  songs  is  hardly 
so  bad  as  this.  The  single  line  questions  and  answers  in  the  Greek  drama 
were  nothing  to  it.  Yet  there  is  a  still  more  extraordinaiy  play  upon  words  ia 
canto  xxiii.  st.  49,  consisting  of  the  description  of  a  hermitage.  It  is  the  only 
one  of  the  kind  which  I  remember  in  the  poem,  and  would  have  driven  some 
of  our  old  hunters  after  alliteration  mad  with  envy : — 

La  casa  cosa  parea  hretta  e  brutta, 
Vinta  dal  venio ;  e  la  nalta  e  la  nolle 


180  PULCI. 

The  want  both  of  good  love-episodes  and  of  descriptions  of 
external  nature,  in  the  Morgante,  is  remarkable  ;  for  Pulci's  ten- 
derness of  heart  is  constantly  manifest,  and  he  describes  himself 
as  beins  almost  absorbed  in  his  woods.  That  he  understood  love 
well  in  all  its  force  and  delicacy  is  apparent  from  a  passage  con- 
nected with  this  pavilion.  The  fair  embroiderer,  in  presenting  it 
to  her  idol  Rinaldo,  undervalues  it  as  a  gift  which  his  great  heart, 
nevertheless,  will  not  disdain  to  accept ;  adding,  with  the  true 
lavishment  of  the  passion,  that  "  she  wishes  she  could  give  him 
the  sun  ;"  and  that  if  she  were  to  say,  after  all,  that  it  was  her 
own  hands  which  had  worked  the  pavilion,  she  should  be  wrong, 
for  Love  himself  did  it.  Rinaldo  v/ishes  to  thank  her,  but  is  so 
struck  with  her  magnificence  and  affection,  that  the  words  die  on 
his  lips.  The  way  also  in  which  another  of  these  loving  ad- 
mirers of  Paladins  conceives  her  affection  for  one  of  them,  and 
persuades  a  vehemently  hostile  suitor  quietly  to  withdraw  his 
claims  by  presenting  him  with  a  ring  and  a  graceful  speech,  is  in 

Stilla  le  stelle,  ch'  a  tetto  era  tuito  : 
Del  pane  appena  ne  dette  ta'  dotte  : 
Pere  avea  pure,'e  qaalche  fratta  fruita  ; 
E  svina  e  svena  di  botto  una  botte  : 
Poscia  per  pesci  lasche  prese  a  V  esca  : 
Ma  il  letto  allotta  a  la.  frasca  i\x  fresca" 

This  holy  hole  was  a  vile  thin-hnWt  thing, 

Blown  by  the  blast  ;  the  night  nought  else  o'erhead 

But  staring  stars  the  rude  roof  entering  ; 

Their  sup  of  supper  was  no  splendid  spread  ; 

Poor  pears  their  fare,  and  such-like  libelling 

Of  quantum  suff. ; — their  butt  all  but  ; — bad  bread  ; — 

A  fiash  of  fish  instead  of  flush  of  flesh  ; 

Tlieir  bed  a  frisk  al-fresco,  freezing  fresh. 

Really,  if  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  other  serious  and  exquisite  gentlemen  had  not 
sometimes  taken  a  positively  grave  interest  in  the  like  pastimes  of  paronomasia, 
one  should  hardly  conceive  it  possible  to  meet  with  them  even  in  tragi-comedy. 
Did  Pulci  find  these  also  in  his  ballad-authorities  ?  If  his  Greek-loving  critics 
made  objections  here,  they  had  the  advantage  of  him :  unless  indeed  they  too, 
hi  their  Alexandrian  predilections,  had  a  sneaking  regard  for  certain  shapings 
of  verse  into  altars  and  hatchets,  such  as  have  been  charged  upon  Theocritus 
himself,  and  which  might  bo  supposed  to  warrant  any  other  conceit  on  occa- 
sion. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  181 


a  taste  as  liigh  as  any  thing  in  Boiardo,  and  superior  to  the  more 
animal  passion  of  the  love  in  tlicir  great  successor.*  Yet  the 
tenderness  of  Pulci  rather  shews  itself  in  the  friendship  of  the 
Paladins  for  one  another,  and  in  perpetual  little  escapes  of  gene- 
p  reus  and  alTectionate  impulse.  This  is  one  of  the  great  charms 
of  the  Morgante.  The  first  adventure  in  the  book  is  Orlando's 
encounter  with  three  giants  in  behalf  of  a  good  abbot,  in  whom 
he  discovers  a  kinsman  ;  and  this  goodness  and  relationship  com- 
bined move  the  Achilles  of  Christendom  to  tears.  Morgante,  one 
of  these  giants,  who  is  converted,  becomes  a  sort  of  squire  to  his 
conqueror,  and  takes  such  a  liking  to  him,  that,  seeing  him  one 
day  deliver  himself  not  without  peril  out  of  the  clutches  of  a 
devil,  he  longs  to  go  and  set  free  the  whole  of  the  other  world 
from  devils.  Indeed  there  is  no  end  to  his  affection  for  him.  Ri- 
naldo  and  other  Paladins,  meantime,  cannot  rest  till  they  have 
set  out  in  search  of  Orlando.  Tliey  never  meet  or  part  with 
him  without  manifesting  a  tenderness  proportionate  to  their  valour, 
— the  old  Homeric  candour  of  emotion.  The  devil  Ashtaroth 
himself,  who  is  a  great  and  proud  devil,  assures  Rinaldo,  for 
whom  he  has  conceived  a  regard,  that  there  is  good  feeling  {gcn- 
tilczza)  even  in  hell  ;  and  Rinaldo,  not  to  hurt  the  feeling,  an- 
swers that  he  has  no  doubt  of  it,  or  of  the  capability  of  "  friend- 
ship" in  that  quarter  ;  and  he  says  he  is  as  "  sorry  to  part  with 
him  as  with  a  brother."  The  passage  will  be  found  in  our  ab- 
stract. There  are  no  such  devils  as  these  in  Dante ;  though 
Milton  has  something  like  them  : 

"  Devil  with  devil  damn'd 
Firm  concord  holds :  men  only  disagree." 

It  is  supposed  that  the  character  of  Ashtaroth,  which  is  a  very 

*  See,  iu  the  original,  the  story  of  Meridiana,  canto  vii.  King  Manfredonio 
has  come  in  loving  hostility  against  her  to  endeavour  to  win  her  affection  by 
his  prowess.  He  finds  her  assisted  by  the  Paladins,  and  engaged  by  her  own 
heart  to  Uliviero  ;  and  in  the  despair  of  his  discomfiture,  expresses  a  wish  to 
die  by  her  hand.  Meridiana,  with  graceful  pity,  begs  Ills  acceptance  of  a 
jewel,  and  recommends  him  to  go  home  with  his  army  ;  to  which  he  griev- 
ingly  consents.  This  indeed  is  beautiful  ;  and  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  given 
an  abstract  of  it,  as  a  specimen  of  what  Pulci  could  have  done  in  this  way,  had 
he  chosen^ 


? 


182  PULCI. 

new  and  extraordinary  one,  and  does  great  honour  to  the  daring 
goodness  of  Pulci's  imagination,  was  not  lost  upon  Milton,  who 
was  not  only  acquainted  with  the  poem,  but  expressly  intimates 
the  pleasure  he  took  in  it.*  Rinaldo  advises  this  devil,  as  Burns 
did  Lucifer,  to  ''  take  a  thought  and  mend."  Ashtaroth,  who 
had  been  a  seraph,  takes  no  notice  of  the  advice,  except  with  a 
waving  of  the  recollection  of  happier  times.  He  bids  the  hero 
farewell,  and  says  he  has  only  to  summon  him  in  order  to  receive 
his  aid.  This  retention  of  a  sense  of  his  former  angelical  dig- 
nity has  been  noticed  by  Foscolo  and  Panizzi,  the  two  best 
writers  on  these  Italian  poems. "j"  A  Calvinist  would  call  the  ex- 
pression of  the  sympathy  "  hardened."  A  humanist  knows  it  to 
be  the  result  of  a  spirit  exquisitely  softened.  An  unbounded  ten- 
derness is  the  secret  of  all  that  is  beautiful  in  the  serious  portion 
of  our  author's  genius.  Orlando's  good-natured  giant  weeps 
even  for  the  death  of  the  scoundrel  Margutte  ;  and  the  awful 
hero  himself,  at  whose  death  nature  is  convulsed  and  the  heav- 
ens open,  begs  his  dying  horse  to  forgive  him  if  ever  he  has 
wronged  it. 

A  charm  of  another  sort  in  Pulci,  and  yet  in  most  instances, 
perhaps,  owing  the  best  part  of  its  charmingness  to  its  being 
connected  with  the  same  feeling,  is  his  wit.  Foscolo,  it  is  true, 
says  it  is,  in  general,  more  severe  than  refined  ;  and  it  is  perilous 

*  "  Perhaps  it  was  from  that  same  pohtic  drift  that  the  devil  whipt  St.  Je- 
rome in  a  lenten  dream  for  reading  Cicero  ;  or  else  it  was  a  fantasm  bred  by 
the  fever  which  had  then  seized  him.  For  had  an  angel  been  his  discipliner, 
unless  it  were  for  dwelling  too  much  upon  Ciceronianisms,  and  had  chastised 
the  reading  and  not  the  vanity,  it  had  been  plainly  partial ;  first  to  correct  him 
for  grave  Cicero,  and  not  for  scurrile  Plautus,  whom  he  confesses  to  have  been 
reading  not  long  before  ;  next,  to  correct  him  only,  and  let  so  many  more  an- 
cient fathers  wax  old  in  those  pleasant  and  florid  studies  without  the  lash  of 
such  a  tutoring  apparition ;  msomuch  that  Basil  teaches  how  some  good  use 
may  be  made  of  Margites,  a  sportful  poem,  not  now  extant,  writ  by  Homer ; 
and  why  not  then  of  Morgante,  an  Italian  romance  much  to  the  same  pur- 
pose?"— Arcopagitica,  a  Speech  for  the  Liberty  of  Unlicensed  Printing,  Prose 
"Works,  folio,  1697,  p.  378.  I  quote  the  passage  as  extracted  by  Mr.  Meri- 
valo  in  the  preface  to  his  "  Orlando  in  Roncesvalles," — Poems,  vol.  ii.  p.  41. 

t  Ut  sup.  p.  222.  Foscolo's  remark  is  to  be  found  in  his  admirable  article 
on  the  Narrative  and  Romantic  Poems  of  the  Italians,  in  the  Quarterly  Re- 
view, vol.  xxi.  p.  525. 


HIS   LIFE   AND  GENIUS.  183 

to  differ  with  such  a  critic  on  such  a  point ;  for  much  of  it,  un- 
fortunately, is  lost  to  a  foreign  reader,  in  consequence  of  its  de- 
pcndance  on  the  piquant  old  Tuscan  idiom,  and  on  popular  say- 
ings and  allusions.  Yet  I  should  think  it  impossible  for  Pulci  in 
general  to  be  severe  at  the  expense  of  some  more  agreeable  qual- 
ity ;  and  I  am  sure  that  the  portion  of  his  wit  most  obvious  to  a 
foreigner  may  claim,  if  not  to  have  originated,  at  least  to  have 
been  very  like  the  style  of  one  who  was  among  its  declared  ad- 
mirers,— and  who  was  a  very  polished  writer, — Voltaire.  It  con- 
sists in  treating  an  absurdity  with  an  air  as  if  it  were  none ;  or 
as  if  it  had  been  a  pure  matter  of  course,  erroneously  mistaken 
for  an  absurdity.  Thus  the  good  abbot,  whose  monastery  is 
blockaded  by  the  giants  (for  the  virtue  and  simplicity  of  his  char- 
actor  must  be  borne  in  mind),  after  observing  that  the  ancient 
fathers  in  the  desert  had  not  only  locusts  to  eat,  but  manna,  which 
he  has  no  doubt  was  rained  down  on  purpose  from  heaven,  la- 
ments that  the  "  relishes"  provided  for  himself  and  his  brethren 
should  have  consisted  of  "showers  of  stones."  The  stones, 
while  the  abbot  is  speaking,  come  thundering  down,  and  he  ex- 
claims, "  For  God's  sake,  knight,  come  in,  for  the  manna  is  fall- 
ino- !"  This  is  exactly  in  the  style  of  the  Dictionnaire  Philoso- 
pliique.  So  when  Margutte  is  asked  what  he  believes  in,  and  says 
he  believes  in  "  neither  black  nor  blue,"  but  in  a  good  capon, 
"  whether  roast  or  boiled,"  the  reader  is  forcibly  reminded  of 
Voltaire's  Traveller,  Scarmentado,  who,  when  he  is  desired  by 
the  Tartars  to  declare  which  of  their  two  parties  he  is  for,  the 
party  of  the  black-mutton  or  the  white-mutton,  answers,  that  the 
dish  is  "equally  indifferent  to  him,  provided  it  is  tender."  Vol- 
taire, however,  does  injustice  to  Pulci,  when  he  pretends  that  in 
matters  of  belief  he  is  like  himself, — a  mere  scoffer.  The  friend 
of  Lucrezia  Tornabuoni  has  evidently  the  tenderest  veneration 
for  all  that  is  good  and  lovely  in  the  Catholic  faith  ;  and  what- 
ever liberties  he  might  have  allowed  himself  in  professed  extrav- 
ao;anzas,  when  an  age  without  Church-authority  encouraged  them, 
and  a  reverend  canon  could  take  part  in  those  (it  must  be  ac- 
knowledger!) unseemly  "  high  jinks,"  he  never,  in  the  Morgante, 
when  speaking  in  his  own  person,  and  not  in  that  of  the  worst 
characters,  intimates  disrespect  towards  any  opinion  which  he  did 


184  PULCI. 

not  hold  to  be  irrelevant  to  a  right  faith.  It  is  observable  that 
his  freest  expressions  are  put  in  the  mouth  of  the  giant  Margutte, 
the  lowest  of  these  characters,  who  is  an  invention  of  the  author's, 
and  a  most  extraordinary  personage.  He  is  the  first  unmitigated 
blackguard  in  fiction,  and  is  the  greatest  as  well  as  first.  Pulci 
is  conjectured,  with  great  probability,  to  have  designed  him  as  a 
caricature  of  some  real  person ;  for  Margutte  is  a  Greek  who,  in 
point  of  morals,  has  been  horribly  brought  up,  and  some  of  the 
Greek  refugees  in  Italy  were  greatly  disliked  for  the  cynicism 
of  their  manners  and  the  grossness  of  their  lives.  Margutte  is  a 
glutton,  a  drunkard,  a  liar,  a  thief,  and  a  blasphemer.  He  boasts 
of  having  every  vice,  and  no  virtue  except  fidelity  ;  which  is 
meant  to  reconcile  Morgante  to  his  company  ;  but  though  the  lat- 
ter endures  and  even  likes  it  for  his  amusement,  he  gives  him  to 
understand  that  he  looks  on  his  fidelity  as  only  securable  by  the 
bastinado,  and  makes  him  the  subject  of  his  practical  jokes.  The 
respectable  giant  Morgante  dies  of  the  bite  of  a  crab,  as  if  to 
shew  on  what  trivial  chances  depends  the  life  of  the  strongest. 
Margutte  laughs  himself  to  death  at  sight  of  a  monkey  putting 
his  boots  on  and  off;  as  though  the  good-natured  poet  meant  at 
once  to  express  his  contempt  of  a  merely  and  grossly  anti-serious 
mode  of  existence,  and  his  consideration,  nevertheless,  towards 
the  poor  selfish  wretch  who  had  had  no  better  training. 

To  this  wit  and  this  pathos  let  the  reader  add  a  style  of  singu- 
lar ease  and  fluency, — rhymes  often  the  most  unexpected,  but 
never  at  a  loss, — a  purity  of  Tuscan  acknowledged  by  every 
body,  and  ranking  him  among  the  authorities  of  the  language, — 
and  a  modesty  in  speaking  of  his  own  pretensions  equalled  only 
by  his  enthusiastic  extolments  of  genius  in  others ;  and  the  read- 
er has  before  him  the  lively  and  afiecting,  hopeful,  charitable, 
large-hearted  Luigi  Pulci,  the  precursor,  and  in  some  respects 
exemplar,  of  Ariosto,  and,  in  Milton's  opinion,  a  poet  worth  read- 
ing for  the  "  good  use"  that  may  be  made  of  him.  It  has  been 
strangely  supposed  tliat  his  friend  Politian,  and  Ficino  the  Platon- 
ist,  not  merely  helped  him  with  their  books  (as  he  takes  a  pride  in 
telling  us),  but  wrote  a  good  deal  of  the  latter  part  of  the  Mor- 
gante,  particularly  the  speculations  in  matters  of  opinion.  As  if 
(to  say  nothing  of  the  difference  of  style)  a  man  of  genius,  how- 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  185 

ever  lively,  did  not  go  through  the  gravest  reflections  in  tlio 
course  of  his  life,  or  could  not  enter  into  any  theological  or  met- 
aphysical question,  to  which  he  chose  to  direct  his  attention. 
Animal  spirits  themselves  are  too  often  but  a  counterbalance  to 
the  most  thoughtful  melancholy;  and  one  fit  of  jaundice  or  hyp- 
ochondria might  have  enabled  the  poet  to  see  more  visions  of  the 
unknown  and  the  inscrutable  in  a  single  day,  than  perhaps  ever 
entered  the  imagination  of  the  elegant  Latin  scholar,  or  even  the 
disciple  of  Plato. 


■ 

I 


HUMOURS    OF    GIANTS. 


HUMOURS    OF    GIANTS 


Jp  Twelve  Paladins  had  the  Emperor  Charlemagne  in  his  court ; 
and  the  most  wise  and  famous  of  them  was  Orlando.  It  is  of 
him  I  am  about  to  speak,  and  of  his  friend  Morgante,  and  of  Gan 
the  traitor,  who  beguiled  him  to  his  death  in  Roncesvalles,  where 
he  sounded  his  horn  so  mightily  after  the  dolorous  rout. 

It  was  Easter,  and  Charles  had  all  his  court  with  him  in  Paris, 
making  high  feast  and  triumph.  There  was  Orlando,  the  first 
among  them,  and  Ogier  the  Dane,  and  Astolfo  the  Englishman, 
and  Ansuigi ;  and  there  came  Angiolin  of  Bayonne,  and  Ulivie- 
ro,  and  the  gentle  Berlinghieri ;  and  there  was  also  Avolio  and 
Avino,  and  Otho  of  Normandy,  and  Richard,  and  the  wise  Namo, 
and  the  aged  Salamon,  and  Walter  of  Monlione,  and  Baldwin 
who  was  the  son  of  the  wretched  Gan.  The  good  emperor  was 
too  happy,  and  oftentimes  fairly  groaned  for  joy  at  seeing  all  his 
Paladins  toG-ether. 

But  Fortune  stands  watchinjr  in  secret  to  baffle  our  desio-ns. 
While  Charles  was  thus  hugging  himself  with  delight,  Orlando 
governed  every  thing  at  court,  and  this  made  Gan  burst  with 
envy ;  so  that  he  began  one  day  talking  with  Charles  after  the 
following  manner  : — "  Are  we  always  to  have  Orlando  for  our 
master  ?  I  have  thought  of  speaking  to  you  about  it  a  thousand 
times.  Orlando  has  a  great  deal  too  much  presumption.  Here 
are  we,  counts,  dukes,  and  kings,  at  your  service,  but  not  at  his  ; 
and  we  have  resolved  not  to  be  governed  any  longer  by  one  so 
much  younger  than  ourselves.  You  began  in  Aspramont  to  give 
him  to  understand  how  valiant  he  was,  and  that  he  did  great 
things  at  that  fountain  ;  whereas,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  good 
Gerard,  I  know  very  well  where  the  victory  would  have  been. 
The  truth  is,  he  has  an  eye  upon  the  crown.     This,  Charles,  is 


190  HUMOURS   OF   GIANTS. 

the  worthy  who  has  deserved  so  much  !  All  your  generals  are 
afflicted  at  it.  As  for  me,  I  shall  repass  those  mountains  over 
which  I  came  to  you  with  seventy -two  counts.  Do  you  take  him 
for  a  Mars  ?" 

Orlando  happened  to-  hear  these  words  as  he  sat  apart,  and  it 
displeased  him  with  the  lord  of  Pontiers  that  he  should  speak  so, 
but  much  more  that  Charles  should  believe  him.  He  would  have  j 
killed  Gan,  if  Uliviero  had  not  prevented  him  and  taken  his 
sword  out  of  his  hand ;  nay,  he  would  have  killed  Charlemagne ; 
but  at  last  he  went  from  Paris  by  himself,  raging  with  scorn  and 
grief  He  borrowed,  as  he  went,  of  Ermillina  the  wife  of  Ogier, 
the  Dane's  sword  Cortana  and  his  horse  Rondel,  and  proceeded 
on  his  way  to  Brava.  His  wife,  Alda  the  Fair,  hastened  to  em- 
brace him ;  but  while  she  was  saying,  "  Welcome,  my  Orlando," 
he  was  going  to  strike  her  with  his  sword,  for  his  head  was  be- 
wildered, and  he  took  her  for  the  traitor.  The  fair  Alda  marvel- 
led greatly,  but  Orlando  recollected  himself,  and  she  took  hold  of 
the  bridle,  and  he  leaped  from  his  horse,  and  told  her  all  that  had 
passed,  and  rested  himself  with  her  for  some  days. 

He  then  took  his  leave,  being  still  carried  away  by  his  disdain, 
and  resolved  to  pass  over  into  Heathendom  ;  and  as  he  rode,  he 
thought,  every  step  of  the  way,  of  the  traitor  Gan  ;  and  so,  riding 
on  wherever  the  road  took  him,  he  reached  the  coiifines  between 
the  Christian  countries  and  the  Pagan,  and  came  upon  an  abbey, 
situate  in  a  dark  place  in  a  desert. 

Now  above  the  abbey  was  a  great  mountain,  inhabited  by  three 
fierce  giants,  one  of  whom  was  named  Passamonte,  another  Ala- 
bastro,  and  the  third  Morgante  ;  and  these  giants  used  to  disturb 
the  abbey  by  throwing  things  down  upon  it  from  the  mountain 
with  slings,  so  that  the  poor  little  monks  could  not  go  out  to  fetch 
wood  or  water.  Orlando  knocked,  but  nobody  would  open  till 
the  abbot  was  spoken  to.  At  last  the  abbot  came  himself,  and 
opening  the  door  bade  him  welcome.  The  good  man  told  him 
the  reason  of  the  delay,  and  said  that  since  the  arrival  of  the 
giants  they  had  been  so  perplexed  that  they  did  not  know  what 
to  do.  "Our  ancient  fathers  in  the  desert,"  quoth  he,  "were 
rewarded  according  to  their  holiness.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  they  lived  only  upon  locusts ;  doubtless,  it  also  rained  man- 


HUMOURS   OF   GIANTS.  191 

na  upon  them  from  heaven ;  but  hero  one  is  regaled  with  stones, 
which  the  giants  pour  on  us  from  the  mountain.  Tliese  are  our 
nice  bits  and  relishes.  The  fiercest  of  the  three,  Morgante, 
plucks  up  pines  and  other  great  trees  by  the  roots,  and  casts 
them  on  us."  While  they  were  talking  thus  in  the  cemetery, 
there  came  a  stone  which  seemed  as  if  it  would  break  Rondel's 
back. 

"  For  God's  sake,  cavalier,"  said  the  abbot,  "  come  in,  for  the 
manna  is  falling." 

"  My  dear  Abbot,"  answered  Orlando,  "  this  fellow,  methinks, 
does  not  wish  to  let  my  horse  feed  ;  he  wants  to  cure  him  of  be- 
ing restive  ;  the  stone  seems  as  if  it  came  from  a  good  arm." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  holy  father,  "  I  did  not  deceive  you.  I 
think,  some  day  or  other,  they  will  cast  the  mountain  itself 
on  us." 

Orlando  quieted  his  horse,  and  then  sat  down  to  a  meal ;  after 
which  he  said,  "  Abbot,  I  must  go  and  return  the  present  that 
has  been  made  to  my  horse."  The  abbot  with  great  tenderness 
endeavoured  to  dissuade  him,  but  in  vain  ;  upon  which  he  crossed 
him  on  the  forehead,  and  said,  "  Go,  then  ;  and  the  blessing  of 
God  be  with  you." 

Orlando  scaled  the  mountain,  and  came  where  Passamonte 
was,  who,  seeing  him  alone,  measured  him  with  his  eyes,  and 
asked  him  if  he  would  stay  with  him  for  a  page,  promising  to 
make  him  comfortable.  "  Stupid  Saracen,"  said  Orlando,  "  1 
come  to  you,  according  to  the  will  of  God,  to  be  your  death,  and 
not  your  foot-boy.  You  have  displeased  his  servants  here,  and 
are  no  longer  to  be  endured,  dog  that  you  are  !" 

The  giant,  finding  himself  thus  insulted,  ran  in  a  fuiy  to  his 
weapons ;  and  returning  to  Orlando,  slung  at  him  a  large  stone, 
which  struck  him  on  the  head  with  such  force,  as  not  only  made 
his  helmet  rinii  again,  but  felled  him  to  the  earth.  Passamonte 
thought  he  was  dead.  "  What  could  have  brought  that  paltry 
fellow  here  ?"  said  he,  as  he  turned  away. 

But  Christ  never  forsakes  his  followers.  While  Passamonte 
was  going  away,  Orlando*  recovered,  and  cried  aloud,  "  How 
now,  giant  ?  do  you  fancy  you  have  killed  me  ?  Turn  back, 
for  unless  you  have  wings,  your  escape  is  out  of  the  question, 


192  HUMOURS  OF  GIANTS. 


dog  of  a  renegade  !"  The  giant,  greatly  marvelling,  turned 
back  ;  and  stooping  to  pick  up  a  stone,  Orlando,  who  had  Cor- 
tana  naked  in  his  hand,  cleft  his  skull ;  upon  which,  cursing 
Mahomet,  the  monster  tumbled,  dying  and  blaspheming,  to  the 
ground.  Blaspheming  fell  the  sour-hearted  and  cruel  wretch ; 
but  Orlando,  in  the  mean  while,  thanked  the  Father  and  the 
Word. 

The  Paladin  went  on,  seeking  for  Alabastro,  the  second  giant ; 
who,  when  he  saw  him,  endeavoured  to  pluck  up  a  great  piece 
of  stony  earth  by  the  roots.  "  Ho,  ho  !"  cried  Orlando,  "  you 
too  are  for  throwing  stones,  are  you  ?"  Then  Alabastro  took 
his  sling,  and  flung  at  him  so  large  a  fragment  as  forced  Orlando 
to  defend  himself,  for  if  it  had  struck  him,  he  would  no  more 
have  needed  a  surgeon  ;*  but  collecting  his  strength,  he  thrust 
his  sword  into  the  giant's  breast,  and  the  loggerhead  fell  dead. 

Now  Morgante,  the  only  surviving  brother,  had  a  palace  made, 
after  giant's  fashion,  of  earth,  and  boughs,  and  shmgles,  in  which 
he  shut  himself  up  at  night.  Orlando  knocked,  and  disturbed 
him  from  his  sleep,  so  that  he  came  staring  to  the  door  like  a 
madman,  for  he  had  had  a  bewildering  dream. 

"  Who  knocks  there  ?"  quoth  he. 

"  You  will  know  too  soon,"  answered  Orlando;  "  I  am  come  to 
make  you  do  penance  for  your  sins,  like  your  brothers.  Divine 
Providence  has  sent  me  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  the  monks  upon 
the  whole  set  of  you.  Doubt  it  not ;  for  Passamonte  and  Ala- 
bastro are  already  as  cold  as  a  couple  of  pilasters." 

"  Noble  knight,"  said  Morgante,  "do  me  no  ill ;  but  if  you 
are  a  Christian,  tell  me  in  courtesy  who  you  are." 

"  I  will  satisfy  you  of  my  faith,"  replied  Orlando  ;  "  I  adore 
Christ ;   and  if  you  please,  you  may  adore  him  also." 

"  I  have  had  a  strange  vision,"  replied  Morgante,  with  a  low 
voice  :  "  I  was  assailed  by  a  dreadful  serpent,  and  called  upon 
Mahomet  in  vain ;  then  I  called  upon  your  God  who  was  cruci- 


*  A  common  pleasantry  in  the  old  romances.—"  Galaor  went  in,  and  then 
the  halberders  attacked  him  on  one  side,  and  the  knight  on  the  other.  He 
snatched  an  axe  from  one,  and  turned  to  the  knight  and  smote  him,  so  that  he 
had  no  need  of  a  surgeon."— Southey's  Amadis  of  Gaul,  vol.  i.  p.  146. 


HUMOURS   OF   GIANTS.  193 


fied,  and  he  succoured  me,  and  1  was  delivered  from  the  serpent; 
BO  I  am  disposed  to  become  a  Cliristian." 

"  If  you  keep  in  tliis  mind,"  returned  Orhmdo,  "  you  shall 
worship  the  true  God,  and  come  with  me  and  be  my  companion, 
and  I  will  love  you  with  perfect  love.  Your  idols  are  false  and 
vain  ;  the  true  God  is  the  God  of  the  Christians.  Deny  tiie  un- 
just and  villanous  worship  of  your  Mahomet,  and  be  baptised  in 
tiie  name  of  my  God,  who  alone  is  worthy." 

*'  I  am  content,"  said  Morgante. 

Then  Orlando  embraced  him,  and  said,  "  I  will  lead  you  to 
the  abbey." 

"  Let  us  go  quickly,"  replied  Morgante,  for  he  was  impatient 
to  make  his  peace  with  the  monks. 

Orlando  rejoiced,  saying,  "  My  good  brother,  and  devout  with- 
al, you  must  ask  pardon  of  the  abbot ;  for  God  has  enliglitened 
you,  and  accepted  you,  and  he  would  have  you  practise  hu- 
mility." 

"  Yes,"  said  Morgante,  "  thanks  to  you,  your  God  shall  hence- 
forth be  my  God.  Tell  me  your  name,  and  afterwards  dispose 
of  me  as  vou  will."     And  he  told  him  that  he  was  Orlando. 

"  Blessed  Jesus  be  thanked,"  said  the  giant,  "  for  I  have  al- 
ways heard  you  called  a  perfect  knight ;  and  as  I  said,  I  will 
follow  you  all  my  life  long." 

And  so  conversing,  they  went  together  towards  the  abbey  ;  and 
by  the  way  Orlando  talked  with  Morgante  of  the  dead  giants,  and 
sought  to  comfort  him,  saying  they  had  done  the  monks  a  thousand 
injuries,  and  "our  Scripture  says  the  good  shall  be  rewarded  and 
the  evil  punished,  and  we  must  submit  to  the  will  of  God.  The 
doctors  of  our  Church,"  continued  he,  "  are  all  agreed,  that  if 
those  who  are  glorified  in  heaven  were  to  feel  pity  for  their  mise- 
rable kindred  who  lie  in  such  horrible  confusion  in  hell,  their 
beatitude  would  come  to  nothing;  and  this,  you  see,  would  plainly 
be  unjust  on  the  part  of  God.  But  such  is  the  firmness  of  their 
faith,  that  what  appears  good  to  him  appears  good  to  them.  Do 
what  he  may,  they  hold  it  to  be  done  :ivell,  and  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  him  to  err;  so  that  if  their  very  fathers  and  mothers 
are  suffering  everlasting  punishment,  it  does  not  disturb  them 

14 


JD4  HUMOURS   OF   GIANTS. 

fc-  ■■■      ■■  " "  '      '        "  "  "  '■  ■     ■  1 1      ■  ■  -■   ■■  —  —  I  ■  I—  ■  I  ] 

I 

an   atom.     This   is   the   custom,    I    assure   you,    in  the  choirs; 
above."'*' 

"  A  word  to  the  wise,"  said  Morgante  ;  "  you  shall  see  if  I 
grieve  for  my  brethren,  and  whether  or  no  I  submit  to  the  will  of 
God,  and  behave  myself  like  an  angel.  So  dust  to  dust ;  and 
now  let  us  enjoy  ourselves.  I  will  cut  off  their  hands,  all  four 
of  them,  and  take  them  to  these  holy  monks,  that  they  may  be 
sure  they  are  dead,  and  not  fear  to  go  out  alone  into  the  desert. 
They  will  then  be  certain  also  that  the  Lord  has  purified  me,  and 
taken  me  out  of  darkness,  and  assured  to  me  the  kingdom  of 


*       "  Sonsi  i  nostri  dottori  accordati, 
Pigliando  tutti  una  conclusion e, 
Che  que'  die  son  nel  ciel  glorificati, 
S'  avessin  nel  pensier  compassione 
De'  miseri  parent!  che  damiati 
Son  ne  lo  inferno  in  gran  confusione, 
La  lor  felicity,  nulla  sarebbe  : 
E  vedi  che  qui  ingiusto  Iddio  parebbe. 

Ma  egli  anno  posto  in  Gesti  ferma  spene  ; 
E  tanto  pare  a  lor,  quanto  a  lui  pare : 
AfFerman  cit)  ch'  e'  fa,  che  facci  bene, 
E  che  non  possi  in  nessun  modo  errare  : 
Se  padre  o  madre  e  ne  1'  eterne  pene, 
Di  questo  non  si  posson  contarbare  : 
Che  quel  che  place  a  Dio,  sol  place  a  loro : 
Questo  s'  osserva  ne  1'  eterno  coro. 

Al  savio  suol  bastar  poche  parole, 
Disse  Morgante :  tu  il  potrai  vedere, 
De'  miei  fratelli,  Orlando,  se  mi  duole, 
E  s'  io  m'  accorder6  di  Dio  al  volere. 
Come  tu  di  che  in  ciel  servar  si  suole  : 
Morti  co'  morti ;  or  pensiam  di  godere  : 
Io  vo'  tagliar  le  mani  a  tutti  quanti, 
E  porteroUe  a  que'  monaci  santi." 

This  doctrine,  which  is  horrible  blasphemy  in  the  eyes  of  natural  feeling,  is 
good  reasoning  in  Catholic  and  Calvinistic  theology.  They  first  make  the 
Deity's  actions  a  necessity  from  more  barbarous  assumption,  then  square  them 
according  to  a  dictum  of  the  Councils,  then  compliment  him  by  laying  all  that 
he  has  made  good  and  kindly  within  us  mangled  and  mad  at  his  feet.  Mean- 
time they  think  themselves  qualified  to  denounce  Moloch  and  Jugghanaut ! 


HUMOURS   OF  GIANTS.  19» 


heaven."     So  saying,  the  giant  cut  ofl*  the  hands  of  his  brethren, 
and  left  their  bodies  to  tlie  beasts  and  birds. 

They  went  to  the  abbey,  where  the  abbot  was  expecting  Orlan- 
do in  great  anxiety  ;  but  the  monks  not  knowing  wliat  had  liap- 
pened,  ran  to  the  abbot  in  great  haste  and  alarm,  saying,  "  ^V'ill 
you  suffer  this  giant  to  come  in  ?"  And  when  the  abbot  saw 
the  giant,  he  changed  countenance.  Orlando,  perceiving  him 
thus  disturbed,  made  haste  and  said,  "  Abbot,  peace  be  with  you ! 
The  giant  is  a  Christian  ;  he  believes  in  Christ,  and  has  renoun- 
ced his  false  prophet,  Mahomet."  And  Morgante  shewing  the 
hands  in  proof  of  his  faith,  the  abbot  thanked  Heaven  with  great 
contentment  of  mind. 

The  abbot  did  much  honour  to  Morgante,  comparing  him  with 
St.  Paul ;  and  they  rested  there  many  days.  One  day,  wander- 
ing over  the  house,  they  entered  a  room  where  the  abbot  kept  a 
quantity  of  armour ;  and  INIorgante  saw  a  bow  which  pleased 
him,  and  he  fastened  it  on.  Now  there  was  in  the  place  a  great 
scarcity  of  water  ;  and  Orlando  said,  like  his  good  brother, 
"Morgante,!  wish  you  would  fetch  us  some  water."  "Com- 
mand me  as  you  please,"  said  he  ;  and  placing  a  great  tub  on 
his  shoulders,  he  went  towards  a  spring  at  which  he  had  been  ac- 
customed to  drink,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  Having  reached 
the  spring,  he  suddenly  heard  a  great  noise  in  the  forest.  He 
took  an  arrow  from  the  quiver,  placed  it  in  the  bow,  and  raising 
his  head,  saw  a  great  herd  of  swine  rushing  towards  the  spring 
where  he  stood.  Morgante  shot  one  of  them  clean  through  the 
head,  and  laid  him  sprawling.  Another,  as  if  in  revenge,  ran  to- 
wards the  giant,  without  giving  him  time  to  use  a  second  arrow  ; 
so  he  lent  him  a  cuff  on  the  head  which  broke  the  bone,  and 
killed  him  also ;  which  stroke  the  rest  seeing  fled  in  haste  tlirough 
the  valley.  Morgante  then  placed  the  tub  full  of  water  upon  one 
of  his  shoulders,  and  the  two  porkers  on  the  other,  and  returned 
to  the  abbey  which  was  at  some  distance,  without  spilling  a 
drop. 

The  monks  were  delighted  to  see  the  fresh  water,  but  still 
more  the  pork  ;  for  there  is  no  animal  to  whom  food  comes  amiss. 
They  let  their  breviaries  therefore  go  to  sleep  a  while,  and  fell 


196  HUMOURS   OF   GIANTS. 


heartily  to  work,  so  that  the  cats  and  dogs  had  reason  to  lament 
the  polish  of  the  bones. 

"  But  why  do  we  stay  here  doing  nothing  ?"  said  Orlando  one 
day  to  ]\Iorgante ;  and  he  shook  hands  with  the  abbot,  and  told 
him  he  must  take  his  leave.  "  I  must  go,"  said  he,  "  and  make 
up  for  lost  time.  I  ought  to  have  gone  long  ago,  my  good  father  ; 
but  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  feel  within  me,  at  the  content  I  have 
enjoyed  here  in  your  company.  I  shall  bear  in  mind  and  in 
heart  with  me  for  ever  the  abbot,  the  abbey,  and  this  desert,  so 
great  is  the  love  they  have  raised  m  me  in  so  short  a  time.  The 
great  God,  who  reigns  above,  must  thank  you  for  me,  in  his  own 
abode.  Bestow  on  us  your  benediction,  and  do  not  forget  us  hi 
your  prayers." 

When  the  abbot  heard  the  County  Orlando  talk  thus,  his  heart 
melted  within  him  for  tenderness,  and  he  said,  "  Knight,  if  we 
have  failed  in  any  courtesy  due  to  your  prowess  and  great  gen- 
tleness (and  indeed  what  we  have  done  has  been  but  little),  pray 
put  it  to  the  account  of  our  ignorance,  and  of  the  place  which  we 
inhabit.  We  are  but  poor  men  of  the  cloister,  better  able  to  re- 
gale you  with  masses  and  orisons  and  paternosters,  than  with  din- 
ners and  suppers.  You  have  so  taken  this  heart  of  mine  by  the 
many  noble  qualities  I  have  seen  in  you,  that  I  shall  be  witli  you 
still  wherever  you  go ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  you  will  always 
be  present  here  with  me.  This  seems  a  contradiction,  but  you 
are  wise,  and  will  take  my  meaning  discreetly.  You  have  saved 
the  veiy  life  and  spirit  within  us  ;  for  so  much  perplexity  had 
those  giants  cast  about  our  place,  that  the  way  to  the  Lord  among 
us  was  blocked  up.  May  He  who  sent  you  into  these  woods  re- 
ward the  justice  and  piety  by  which  we  are  delivered  from  our 
trouble.  Thanks  be  to  him  and  to  you.  We  shall  all  be  discon- 
solate at  your  departure.  We  shall  grieve  that  we  cannot  detain 
you  among  us  for  months  and  years  ;  but  you  do  not  wear  these 
weeds ;  you  bear  arms  and  armour ;  and  you  may  possibly 
merit  as  well  in  carrying  those,  as  in  wearing  this  cap.  You 
read  your  Bible,  and  your  virtue  has  been  the  means  of  shewing 
the  giant  the  way  to  heaven.  Go  in  peace  then,  and  prosper, 
whoever  you  may  be.  I  do  not  seek  your  name  ;  but  if  ever  I 
am  asked  who  it  was  that  came  among  us,  I  shall  say  that  it  was 


HUMOURS   OF  GIANTS.  197 

an  angel  from   God.     If  there  is  any  armour  or  other  tiling  that 
you  would  have,  go  into  the  room  where  it  is,  and  take  it." 

•'  If  you  have  any  armour  that  would  suit  my  companion," 
replied  Orlando,  '"  that  I  will  accept  with  pleasure." 

"  Come  and  see,"  said  the  abbot ;  and  they  went  to  a  room 
that  was  full  of  armour.  Morgante  looked  all  about,  but  could 
find  nothing  large  enough,  except  a  rusty  breast-plate,  which 
fitted  him  marvellously.  It  had  belonged  to  an  enormous  giant, 
who  was  killed  there  of  old  by  Orlando's  father,  Milo  of  Angrante. 
There  was  a  painting  on  the  wall  which  told  the  whole  story : 
how  the  giant  had  laid  cruel  and  long  siege  to  the  abbey  ;  and 
how  he  had  been  overthrown  at  last  by  the  great  Milo.  Orlando 
seeing  this,  said  within  himself:  "O  God,  unto  whom  all  things 
are  known,  how  came  Milo  here,  who  destroyed  this  giant  ?" 
And  reading  certain  inscriptions  which  were  there,  he  could  no 
longer  keep  a  firm  countenance,  but  the  tears  ran  down  his 
checks. 

A\'hen  the  abbot  saw  Orlando  weep,  and  his  brow  redden,  and 
the  liglit  of  his  eyes  become  child-like  for  sweetness,  he  asked 
him  the  reason  ;  but,  finding  him  still  dumb  with  emotion,  he 
said,  '•  I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  overpow^ered  by  admira- 
tion of  what  is  painted  in  this  chamber.  You  must  know  that  I 
am  of  high  descent,  though  not  through  lawful  wedlock.  I  be- 
lieve I  may  say  I  am  nephew  or  sister's  son  to  no  less  a  man 
than  that  Rinaldo,  who  was  so  great  a  Paladin  in  the  world, 
though  my  own  father  was  not  of  a  lawful  mother.  Ansuigi 
was  his  name  ;  my  own,  out  in  the  world,  was  Chiaramonte  ; 
and  this  Milo  was  my  father's  brother.  Ah,  gentle  baron,  for 
blessed  Jesus'  sake,  tell  me  what  name  is  yours !" 

Orlando,  all  clowincr  with  affection,  and  bathed  in  tears,  re- 
plied,  "  My  dear  abbot  and  cousin,  he  before  you  is  your  Orlan- 
do."  Upon  this,  they  ran  for  tenderness  into  each  other's  arms, 
weeping  on  both  sides  with  a  sovereign  afTection,  too  high  to  be 
expressed.  The  abbot  was  so  overjoyed,  that  he  seemed  as  if 
he  would  never  have  done  embracing  Orlando.  "  Bj  w^hat  for- 
tune," said  the  knight,  "  do  I  find  you  in  this  obscure  place  ? 
Tell  me,  my  dear  abbot,  how  was  it  you  became  a  monk,  and 
did  not  follow  arms,  like  mvself  and  the  rest  of  us?" 


198  HUMOURS   OF   GIANTS. 


"  It  is  the  will  of  God,"  replied  the  abbot,  hastening  to  give 
his  feelings  utterance.  '•'  Many  and  divers  are  the  paths  he 
points  out  for  us  by  which  to  arrive  at  his  city  ;  some  walk  it 
with  the  sword — some  with  pastoral  staff.  Nature  makes  the 
inclination  different,  and  therefore  there  are  different  ways  for 
us  to  take  :  enough  if  we  all  arrive  safely  at  one  and  the  same 
place,  the  last  as  well  as  the  first.  We  are  all  pilgrims  through 
many  kingdoms.  We  all  wish  to  go  to  Rome,  Orlando  ;  but  we 
go  picking  out  our  journey  through  different  roads.  Such  is  the 
trouble  in  body  and  soul  brought  upon  us  by  that  sin  of  the  old 
apple.  Day  and  night  am  I  here  with  ray  book  in  hand — day 
and  night  do  you  ride  about,  holding  your  sword,  and  sweating 
oft  both  in  sun  and  shadow  ;  and  all  to  get  round  at  last  to  the 
home  from  which  we  departed — I  say,  all  out  of  anxiety  and 
hope  to  get  back  to  our  home  of  old."  And  the  giant  hearing 
them  talk  of  these  things,  shed  tears  also. 

The  Paladin  and  the  giant  quitted  the  abbey,  the  one  on  horse- 
back and  the  other  on  foot,  and  journeyed  through  the  desert  till 
they  came  to  a  magnificent  castle,  the  door  of  which  stood  open. 
They  entered,  and  found  rooms  furnished  in  the  most  splendid 
manner — beds  covered  with  cloth  of  gold,  and  floors  rejoicing  in 
variegated  marbles.  There  was  even  a  feast  prepared  in  the 
saloon,  but  nobody  to  eat  it,  or  to  speak  to  them. 

Orlando  suspected  some  trap,  and  did  not  quite  like  it ;  but 
Morgante  thought  nothing  worth  considering  but  the  feast. 
"  Who  cares  for  the  host,"  said  he,  "  when  there's  such  a  din- 
ner ?  Let  us  eat  as  much  as  we  can,  and  bear  off  the  rest,  I 
always  do  that  when  I  have  the  picking  of  castles." 

They  accordingly  sat  down,  and  being  very  hungry  with  their 
day's  journey,  devoured  heaps  of  the  good  things  before  them, 
eating  with  all  the  vigour  of  health,  and  drinking  to  a  pitch  of 
weakness.*  They  sat  late  in  this  manner  enjoying  themselves, 
and  then  retired  for  the  nieht  into  rich  beds. 


*  "  E  furno  al  bere  hifermi,  al  manfriar  sani." 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  am  right  in  my  construction  of  this  passage.  Perhaps 
Pulci  means  to  say,  that  they  had  the  appetites  of  men  in  health,  and  th9 
thirst  of  a  fever. 


HUMOURS  OF  GIANTS.  199 


But  what  was  their  astonishment  in  tlic  morning  at  finding  that 
they  could  not  get  out  of  the  place  !  There  was  no  door.  All 
the  entrances  had  vanished,  even  to  any  feasible  window. 

"  We  must  be  dreaming,"  said  Orlando. 

"  jMy  dinner  was  no  dream,  I'll  swear,"  said  the  giant.  "  A3 
for  the  rest,  let  it  be  a  dream  if  it  pleases." 

Continuing  to  search  up  and  down,  they  at  length  found  a 
vault  with  a  tomb  in  it ;  and  out  of  the  tomb  came  a  voice,  say- 
ing, "  You  must  encounter  with  me,  or  stay  here  for  ever.  Lift, 
therefore,  the  stone  that  covers  me." 

"  Do  you  hear  that  ?"  said  Morgante  ;  "  I'll  have  him  out,  if 
it's  the  devil  himself.  Perhaps  it's  two  devils,  Filthy-dog  and 
Foul-mouth,  or  Itclfmg  and  Evil-tail."* 

"  Have  him  out,"  said  Orlando,  "  whoever  he  is,  even  were  it 
as  many  devils  as  were  rained  out  of  heaven  into  the  centre." 

Morgante  lifted  up  the  stone,  and  out  leaped,  surely  enough,  a 
devil  in  the  likeness  of  a  dried-up  dead  body,  black  as  a  coal. 
Orlando  seized  him,  and  the  devil  grappled  with  Orlando.  Mor- 
gante was  for  joining  him,  but  the  Paladin  bade  him  keep  back. 
It  was  a  hard  struggle,  and  the  devil  grinned  and  laughed,  till  the 
giant,  who  was  a  master  of  wrestling,  could  bear  it  no  longer :  so 
he  doubled  him  up,  and,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  thrust  him  back 
into  the  tomb. 

"  You'll  never  get  out,"  said  the  devil,  "  if  you  leave  me  shut 
up." 

"  Why  not  ?"  inquired  the  Paladin. 

"  Because  your  giant's  baptism  and  my  deliverance  must  go 
together,"  answered  the  devil.  "  If  he  is  not  baptised,  you  can 
have  no  deliverance ;  and  if  I  am  not  delivered,  I  can  prevent  it 
still,  take  my  word  for  it." 

Orlando  baptised  the  giant.  The  two  companions  then  issued 
forth,  and  hearing  a  mighty  noise  in  the  house,  looked  back,  and 
saw  it  all  vanished. 

"I  could  find  it  in  my  heart,"  said  Morgante,  "to  go  down  to 
those  same  regions  below,  and  make  all  the  devils  disappear  in 
like  manner.     Why  shouldn't  we  do  it  ?     We'd  set  free  all  the 

*  Cagnazzo,  Farfarello,  Libicocco,  and  Malacoda  ;  names  of  devils  in  Dante. 


200  HUMOURS   OF  GIANTS. 

poor  souls  there.  Egad,  I'd  cut  off  Minos's  tail — I'd  pull  out 
Charon's  beard  by  the  roots — make  a  sop  of  Phlegyas,  and  a  sup 
of  Phlegethon — unseat  Pluto, — kill  Cerberus  and  the  Furies  with 
a  punch  of  the  face  a-piece — and  set  Beelzebub  scampering  like 
a  dromedary." 

"  You  might  find  more  trouble  than  you  wot  of,"  quoth  Orlando, 
'  and  get  worsted  besides.  Better  keep  the  straight  path,  than 
thrust  your  head  into  out-of-the-way  places." 

Morgante  took  his  lord's  advice,  and  went  straightforward  with 
liim  through  many  great  adventures,  helping  him  with  loving 
good-will  as  often  as  he  was  permitted,  sometimes  as  his  pioneer, 
and  sometimes  as  his  finisher  of  troublesome  work,  such  as  a 
slaughter  of  some  thousands  of  infidels.  Now  he  chucked  a  spy 
into  a  river — now  felled -a  rude  ambassador  to  the  earth  (for  he 
didn't  stand  upon  ceremony) — now  cleared  a  space  round  him  in 
battle  with  the  clapper  of  an  old  bell  which  he  had  found  at  the 
monastery — now  doubled  up  a  king  in  his  tent,  and  bore  him 
away,  tent  and  all,  and  a  Paladin  with  him,  because  he  would  not 
let  the  Paladin  go. 

In  the  course  of  these  services,  the  giant  was  left  to  take  care 
of  a  lady,  and  lost  his  master  for  a  time ;  but  the  ofiice  being  at 
an  end,  he  set  out  to  rejoin  him,  and,  arriving  at  a  cross-road,  met 
with  a  very  extraordinary  personage. 

This  was  a  giant  huger  than  himself,  swarthy-faced,  horrible, 
brutish.  He  came  out  of  a  wood,  and  appeared  to  be  journeying 
somewhere.  Morgante,  who  had  the  great  bell-clapper  in  his 
hand  above-mentioned,  struck  it  on  the  ground  with  astonishment, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  Who  the  devil  is  this  ?"  and  then  set  him- 
self on  a  stone  by  the  way-side  to  observe  the  creature. 

"  What's  your  name,  traveller  ?"  said  Morgante,  as  it  came 
up. 

"  My  name's  Margutte,"  said  the  phenomenon.  "I.  intended 
to  be  a  giant  myself,  but  altered  my  mind,  you  see,  and  stopped 
half-way  ;  so  that  I  am  only  twenty  feet  or  so." 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  quoth  his  brother-giant.  "  But  tell  me, 
are  you  Christian  or  Saracen  ?  Do  you  believe  in  Christ  or  in 
Apollo .?" 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  other,  "  I  believe  neither  in 


HUMOURS   OF   GIANTS.  201 

black  nor  blue,  but  in  a  good  capon,  whether  it  be  roast  or  boiled. 
I  believe  sometimes  also  in  butter,  and,  when  I  can  get  it,  in  new 
wine,  particularly  the  rough  sort ;  but,  above  all,  I  believe  in 
wine  that's  good  and  old.  Mahomet's  prohibition  of  it  is  all 
moonshine.  I  am  the  son,  you  must  know,  of  a  Greek  nun  and 
a  Turkish  bishop  ;  and  the  first  thing  I  learned  was  to  play  the 
fiddle.  I  used  to  sing  Homer  to  it.  I  was  then  concerned  in  a 
bra\\  1  in  a  mosque,  in  which  the  old  bishop  somehow  happened  to 
be  killed  ;  so  I  tied  a  sword  to  my  side,  and  went  to  seek  my 
fortune,  accompanied  by  all  the  possible  sins  of  Turk  and  Greek. 
People  talk  of  the  seven  deadly  sins  ;  but  I  have  seventy-seven 
that  never  quit  me,  summer  or  winter ;  by  which  you  may  judge 
of  the  amount  of  my  venial  ones.  I  am  a  gambler,  a  cheat,  a 
ruffian,  a  highwayman,  a  pickpocket,  a  glutton  (at  beef  or  blows) ; 
have  no  shame  whatever ;  love  to  let  every  body  know  what  I 
can  do ;  lie,  besides,  about  what  I  can't  do ;  have  a  particular 
attachment  to  sacrilege  ;  swallow  perjuries  like  figs;  never  give 
a  farthing  to  any  body,  but  beg  of  every  body,  and  abuse  them 
into  the  bargain  ;  look  upon  not  spilling  a  drop  of  liquor  as  the 
chief  of  all  the  cardinal  virtues ;  but  must  own  I  am  not  much 
given  to  assassination,  murder  being  inconvenient ;  and  one  thing 
I  am  bound  to  acknowledge,  which  is,  that  I  never  betrayed  a 
messmate." 

"  That's  as  well,"  observed  Moi'gante  ;  "  because  you  see,  as 
you  don't  believe  in  any  thing  else,  I'd  have  you  believe  in  this 
bell-clapper  of  mine.  So  now,  as  you  have  been  candid  with  me, 
and  I  am  well  instructed  in  your  ways,  we'll  pursue  our  journey 
together." 

The  best  of  giants,  in  those  days,  were  not  scrupulous  in  their 
modes  of  living  ;  so  that  one  of  the  best  and  one  of  the  worst  got 
on  pretty  well  together,  emptying  the  larders  on  the  road,  and 
paying  nothing  but  douses  on  the  chops.  When  they  could  find 
no  inn,  they  hunted  elephants  and  crocodiles.  Morgante,  who  was 
the  braver  of  the  two,  delighted  to  banter,  and  sometimes  to  cheat, 
Margutte ;  and  he  ate  up  all  the  fare  ;  which  made  the  other, 
notwithstandinor  the  credit  he  j^ave  himself  for  readiness  of  wit 
and  tongue,  cut  a  very  sorry  figure,  and  seriously  remonstrate  : 
"  I  reverence  you,  said  Margutte,  "  in  otiier  matters ;  but  in  eat- 


202  HUMOURS   OF   GIANTS. 


ing,  you  really  don't  behave  well.  He  who  deprives  me  of  my 
share  at  meals  is  no  friend ;  at  every  mouthful  of  which  he  robs 
me,  I  seem  to  lose  an  eye.  I'm  for  sharing  every  thing  to  a  nicety, 
even  if  it  be  no  better  than  a  fig." 

"  You  are  a  fine  fellow,"  said  Morgante  ;  •'  you  gain  upon  me 
very  much.     You  are  '  the  master  of  those  who  know.'  "* 

So  saying,  he  made  him  put  some  wood  on  the  fire,  and  per- 
form a  hundred  other  offices  to  render  every  thing  snug ;  and 
then  he  slept :  and  next  day  he  cheated  his  great  scoundrelly  com- 
panion at  drink,  as  he  had  done  the  day  before  at  meat ;  and 
the  poor  shabby  devil  complained ;  and  Morgante  laughed  till 
he  was  ready  to  burst,  and  again  and  again  always  cheated  him. 

There  was  a  levity,  nevertheless,  in  Margutte,  which  restored 
his  spirits  on  the  slightest  glimpse  of  good  fortune  ;  and  if  he  real- 
ised a  hearty  meal,  he  became  the  happiest,  beastliest,  and  most 
confident  of  giants.  The  companions,  in  the  course  of  their  jour- 
ney, delivered  a  damsel  from  the  clutches  of  three  other  giants. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  great  lord ;  and  when  she  got  home, 
she  did  honour  to  Morgante  as  to  an  equal,  and  put  Margutte  into 
the  kitchen,  where  he  was  in  a  state  of  bliss.  He  did  nothing  but 
swill,  stuff,  surfeit,  be  sick,  play  at  dice,  cheat,  filch,  go  to  sleep, 
guzzle  again,  laugh,  chatter,  and  tell  a  thousand  lies. 

Morgante  took  leave  of  the  young  lady,  who  made  him  rich 
presents.  Margutte,  seeing  this,  and  being  always  drunk  and  im- 
pudent, daubed  his  face  like  a  Christmas  clown,  and  making  up 
to  her  with  a  frying-pan  in  his  hand,  demanded  "  something  for 
the  cook."  The  fair  hostess  gave  him  a  jewel :  and  the  vaga- 
bond shewed  such  a  brutal  eagerness  in  seizing  it  with  his  filthy 
hands,  and  making  not  the  least  acknowledgment,  that  when  they 
got  out  of  the  house,  Morgante  was  ready  to  fell  him  to  the  earth. 
He  called  him  scoundrel  and  poltroon,  and  said  he  had  disgraced 
him  for  ever. 

"  Softly !"  said  the  brute-beast.  "  Didn't  you  take  me  with 
you,  knowing  what  sort  of  fellow  I  was  ?  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  had 
every  sin  and  shame  under  heaven  ;  and  have  I  deceived  you  by 
the  exhibition  of  a  single  virtue  ?" 

*  "  II  maestro  di  color  cho  sanno."  A  jocose  application  of  Dante's  praise 
of  Aristotle. 


HUMOURS   OF   GIANTS.  203 


Morgante  could  not  help  laughing  at  a  candour  of  this  excess- 
ive nature.  So  they  went  on  their  way  till  they  came  to  a  wood, 
where  they  rested  themselves  by  a  fountain,  and  Margutte  fell 
fast  asleep.  He  had  a  pair  of  boots  on,  which  Morgante  felt 
tempted  to  draw  off,  that  he  might  see  what  he  would  do  on  wa- 
king. He  accordingly  did  so,  and  threw  them  to  a  little  distance 
among  the  bushes.  The  sleeper  awoke  in  good  time,  and,. look- 
ing and  searching  round  about,  suddenly  burst  into  roars  of  laugh- 
ter. A  monkey  had  got  the  boots,  and  sat  pulling  them  on  and 
off,  making  the  most  ridiculous  gestures.  The  monkey  busied 
himself,  and  the  light-minded  drunkard  laughed  ;  and  at  every 
fresh  gesticulation  of  the  new  boot-wearer,  the  laugh  grew  louder 
and  more  tremendous,  till  at  length  it  was  found  impossible  to 
be  restrained.  The  glutton  had  a  laughing  fit.  In  vain  he 
tried  to  stop  himself;  in  vain  his  fingers  would  have  loosened  the 
buttons  of  his  doublet,  to  give  his  lungs  room  to  play.  They 
couldn't  do  it ;  so  he  laughed  and  roared  till  he  burst.  The  snap 
was  like  the  splitting  of  a  cannon.  Morgante  ran  up  to  him,  but 
it  was  of  no  use.     He  was  dead. 

Alas  !  it  was  not  the  only  death ;  it  was  not  even  the  most  trivial 
cause  of  a  death.  Giants  are  big  fellows,  but  Death's  a  bigger, 
though  he  may  come  in  a  little  shape.  Morgante  had  succeeded 
in  joining  his  master.  He  helped  him  to  take  Babylon  ;  he  kill- 
ed a  whale  for  him  at  sea  that  obstructed  his  passage ;  he  played 
the  part  of  a  main-sail  during  a  storm,  holding  out  his  arms  and  a 
great  hide ;  but  on  coming  to  shore,  a  crab  bit  him  in  the  heel ; 
and  behold  the  lot  of  the  great  giant — he  died  !  He  laughed,  and 
thought  it  a  very  little  thing,  but  it  proved  a  mighty  one.  "  He 
made  the  East  tremble,"  said  Orlando  ;  "  and  the  bite  of  a  crab 
has  slain  him  !" 

O  life  of  ours,  weak,  and  a  fallacy  !* 

Orlando  embalmed  his  huge  friend,  and  had  him  taken  to  Bab- 
ylon, and  honourably  interred  ;  and  after  many  an  adventure,  in 
which  he  regretted  him,  his  own  days  were  closed  by  a  far  baser, 
though  not  so  petty  a  cause. 

How  shall  I  speak  of  it  ?  exclaims  the  poet.     How  think  of 

*  "  O  vita  nostra,  debole  e  fallace  !" 


204  HUMOURS   OF  GIANTS. 


the  horrible  slaughter  about  to  fall  on  the  Christians  and  their 
greatest  men,  so  that  not  a  dry  eye  shall  be  left  in  France  ?  How 
express  my  disgust  at  the  traitor  Gan,  whose  heart  a  thousand 
pardons  from  his  sovereign,  and  the  most  undeserved  rescues  of 
him  by  the  warrior  he  betrayed,  could  not  shame  or  soften  ? 
How  mourn  the  weakness  of  Charles,  always  deceived  by  him, 
and  always  trusting  ?  How  dare  to  present  to  my  mind  the  good, 
the  great,  the  ever-generous  Orlando,  brought  by  the  traitor  into 
the  doleful  pass  of  Roncesvalles  and  the  hands  of  myriads  of  his 
enemies,  so  that  even  his  superhuman  strength  availed  not  to  deliver 
him  out  of  the  slaughter-house,  and  he  blew  the  blast  with  his 
dying  breath;  which  was  the  mightiest,  the  farthest  heard,  and 
the  most  melancholy  sound  that  ever  came  to  the  ears  of  the  un- 
deceived ? 

Gan  was  known  well  to  every  body  but  his  confiding  sove- 
reign. The  Paladins  knew  him  well  ;  and  in  their  moments  of 
indignant  disgust  often  told  him  so,  though  they  spared  him  the 
consequences  of  his  misdeeds,  and  even  incurred  the  most  frightful 
perils  to  deliver  him  out  of  the  hands  of  his  enemies.  But  he 
was  brave ;  he  was  in  favour  with  the  sovereign,  who  was  also 
their  kinsman  ;  and  they  were  loyal  and  loving  men,  and  knew 
that  the  wretch  envied  them  for  the  greatness  of  their  achieve- 
ments, and  might  do  the  state  a  mischief;  so  they  allowed  them- 
selves to  take  a  kind  of  scornful  pleasure  in  putting  up  with  him. 
Their  cousin  Malagigi,  the  enchanter,  had  himself  assisted  Gan, 
though  he  knew  him  best  of  all,  and  had  prophesied  that  the  in- 
numerable endeavours  of  his  envy  to  destroy  his  king  and  coun- 
try would  bring  some  terrible  evil  at  last  to  all  Christendom. 
The  evil,  alas  !  is  at  hand.  The  doleful  time  has  come.  It  will 
be  followed,  it  is  true,  by  a  worse  fate  of  the  wretch  himself;  but 
not  till  the  valleys  of  the  Pyrenees  have  run  rivers  of  blood,  and 
all  France  is  in  mourning. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 


Notice. 

This  is  the 

"  sad  and  fearful  story 
Of  the  Roncesvalles  fight ;" 

an  event  which  national  and  religious  exaggeration  impressed  deeply  on  the 
popular  mind  of  Europe.  Hence  Italian  romances  and  Spanish  ballads :  hence 
the  famous  peissage  in  Milton, 

"  When  Charlemain  with  all  his  peerage  fell 
By  Fontarabbia :" 

hence  Dante's  record  of  the  dolorosa  rotta  (dolorous  rout)  in  the  Inferno,  where 
he  compares  the  voice  of  Nimrod  with  the  horn  sounded  by  the  dying  Orlando : 
hence  the  peasant  in  Cervantes,  who  is  met  by  Don  Quixote  singing  the  bat- 
tle as  he  comes  along  the  road  in  the  morning :  and  hence  the  song  of  Roland 
actually  thundered  forth  by  the  army  of  William  the  Conqueror  as  they  ad- 
vanced against  the  English. 

But  Charlemagne  did  not  "  fall,"  as  Milton  has  stated.  Nor  does  Puici 
make  him  do  so.  In  this  respect,  if  in  little  else,  the  Italian  poet  adhered  to 
the  fact.  The  whole  story  is  a  remarkable  instance  of  what  can  be  done  by 
poetry  and  popularity  towards  misrepresenting  and  aggrandising  a  petty  though 
striking  adventure.  The  simple  fact  was  the  cutting  off  the  rear  of  Charle- 
magne's army  by  the  revolted  Geiscons,  as  he  returned  from  a  successful  expe- 
dition into  Spain.  Two  or  three  only  of  his  nobles  perished,  among  whom  was 
his  nephew  Roland,  the  obscure  warden  of  his  marches  of  Brittany.  But  Charle- 
magne was  the  temporal  head  of  Christendom  ;  the  poets  constituted  his 
nephew  its  champion  ;  and  hence  all  the  glories  and  superhuman  exploits  of 
the  Orlando  of  Pulci  and  Ariosto.  The  whole  assumption  of  the  wickedness 
of  the  Saracens,  particularly  of  the  then  Saracen  king  of  Spain,  whom  Pulci's 
authority,  the  pseudo- Archbishop,  Turpin,  strangely  called  Marsilius,  was  noth- 
ing but  a  pious  fraud  ;  the  pretended  Marsilius  having  been  no  less  a  person 
than  the  great  and  good  Abdoiilrahmaiin  the  First,  who  wrested  the  dominion 
of  that  country  out  of  the  hands  of  the  usurpers  of  his  family-rights.  Yet  so 
potent  and  long-lived  are  the  most  extravagant  fictions,  when  genius  has  put 
its  heart  into  them,  that  to  this  day  we  read  of  the  devoted  Orlando  and  his 
friends  not  only  with  gravity,  but  with  the  liveliest  emotion. 


« 


THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 


A  MISERABLE  man  am  1,  cries  the  poet ;  for  Orlando,  beyond  a 
doubt,  died  in  Roncesvalles  ;  and  die  therefore  he  must  in  my 
verses.  Ahogether  impossible  is  it  to  save  him.  I  thought  to 
make  a  pleasant  ending  of  this  my  poem,  so  that  it  should  be  hap- 
pier somehow,  throughout,  than  melancholy ;  but  though  Gan 
will  die  at  last,  Orlando  must  die  before  him,  and  that  makes  a 
tragedy  of  all.  I  had  a  doubt,  whether,  consistently  with  the 
truth,  I  could  give  the  reader  even  that  sorry  satisfaction  ;  for  at 
the  beginning  of  the  dreadful  battle,  Orlando's  cousin,  Rinaldo, 
who  is  said  to  have  joined  it  before  it  was  over,  and  there,  as  well 
as  afterwards,  to  have  avenged  his  death,  was  far  away  from  the 
seat  of  slaughter,  in  Egypt ;  and  how  was  I  to  suppose  that  he 
could  arrive  soon  enough  in  the  valleys  of  the  Pyrenees  ?  But 
an  angel  upon  earth  shewed  me  the  secret,  even  Angelo  Poli- 
ziano,  the  glory  of  his  age  and  country.  He  informed  me  how 
Arnauld,  the  ProveuQal  poet,  had  written  of  this  very  matter,  and 
brought  the  Paladin  from  Egypt  to  France  by  means  of  the  won- 
derful skill  in  occult  science  possessed  by  his  cousin  Malagigi — 
a  wonder  to  the  ignorant,  but  not  so  marvellous  to  those  who 
know  that  all  the  creation  is  full  of  wonders,  and  who  have  differ- 
ent modes  of  relating  the  same  events.  By  and  by,  a  great  many 
things  will  be  done  in  the  world,  of  which  we  have  no  conception 
now,  and  people  will  be  inclined  to  believe  them  works  of  the 
devil,  when,  in  fact,  they  will  be  very  good  works,  and  contribute 
to  angelical  effects,  whether  the  devil  be  forced  to  have  a  hand  in 
them  or  not ;  for  evil  itself  can  work  only  in  subordination  to 
good.  So  listen  when  the  astonishment  comes,  and  reflect  and 
think  the  best.     Meantime,  we  must  speak  of  another  and  more 


208        THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 


truly  devilish  astonishment,  and  of  the  pangs  of  mortal  flesh  and 
blood. 

The  traitor  Gan,  for  the  fiftieth  time,  had  secretly  brought  the 
infidels  from  all  quarters  against  his  friend  and  master,  the  Em- 
peror Charles  ;  and  Charles,  by  the  help  of  Orlando,  had  con- 
quered them  all.  The  worst  of  them,  Marsilius,  king  of  Spain, 
had  agreed  to  pay  the  court  of  France  tribute  ;  and  Gan,  in  spite 
of  all  the  suspicions  he  excited  in  this  particular  instance,  and  his 
known  villany  at  all  times,  had  succeeded  in  persuading  his  cre- 
dulous sovereign  to  let  him  go  ambassador  into  Spain,  where  he 
put  a  final  seal  to  his  enormities,  by  plotting  the  destruction  of  his 
employer,  and  the  special  overthrow  of  Orlando.  Charles  was 
now  old  and  white-haired,  and  Gan  was  so  too  ;  but  the^one  was 
only  confirmed  in  his  credulity,  and  the  other  in  his  crimes.  The 
traitor  embraced  Orlando  over  and  over  again  at  taking  leave, 
praying  him  to  write  if  he  had  anything  to  say  before  the  ar- 
rangements with  Marsilius,  and  taking  such  pains  to  seem  loving 
and  sincere,  that  his  villany  was  manifest  to  every  one  but  the 
old  monarch.  He  fastened  with  equal  tenderness  on  Uliviero, 
who  smiled  contemptuously  in  his  face,  and  thought  to  himself, 
*'  You  may  make  as  many  fair  speeches  as  you  choose,  but  you 
lie."  All  the  other  Paladins  who  were  present  thought  the  same, 
and  they  said  as  much  to  the  emperor  ;  adding,  that  on  no  account 
should  Gan  be  sent  ambassador  to  Marsilius.  But  Charles  was 
infatuated.     His  beard  and  his  credulity  had  grown  old  together. 

Gan  was  received  with  great  honour  in  Spain  by  Marsilius. 
The  king,  attended  by  his  lords,  came  fifteen  miles  out  of  Sara- 
gossa  to  meet  him,  and  then  conducted  him  into  the  city  amid 
tumults  of  delight.  There  was  nothing  for  several  days  but 
balls,  and  games,  and  exhibitions  of  chivalry,  the  ladies  throwing 
flowers  on  the  heads  of  the  French  knights,  and  the  people  shout- 
ing "  France  !  France  !  Mountjoy  and  St.  Denis  !" 

Gan  made  a  speech,  "  like  a  Demosthenes,"  to  King  Marsilius 
in  public  ;  but  he  made  him  another  in  private,  like  nobody  but 
himself.  The  king  andJie  were  sitting  in  a  garden  ;  they  were 
traitors  both,  and  began  to  understand,  from  one  another's  looks, 
that  the  real  object  of  the  ambassador  was  yet  to  be  discussed. 
Marsilius  accordingly  assumed  a  more  than  usually  cheerful  and 


THE   BATTLE   OF  RONCESVALLES.  209 

confidential  aspect ;  and,  taking  his  visitor  by  the  hand,  said, 
"  You  know  the  proverb,  Mr.  Ambassador — '  At  dawn,  the  moun- 
tain ;  afternoon,  the  fountain.'  Dillerent  things  at  ditferent 
liours.     So  here  is  a  fountain  to  accommodate  us." 

It  was  a  very  beautiful  fountain,  so  clear  that  you  saw  your 
face  in  it  as  in  a  mirror  ;  and  the  spot  was  encircled  with  fruit- 
trees  that  quivered  with  the  fresh  air.  Gan  praised  it  very 
much,  contriving  to  insinuate,  on  one  subject,  his  satisfaction 
with  the  glimpses  he  got  into  another.  Marsilius  understood 
him  ;  and  as  he  resumed  the  conversation,  and  gradually  en- 
couraged a  mutual  disclosure  of  their  thoughts,  Gan,  without 
appearing  to  look  him  in  the  face,  was  enabled  to  do  so  by  con- 
templating the  royal  visage  in  the  water,  where  he  saw  its  ex- 
pression become  more  and  more  what  he  desired.  Marsilius, 
meantime,  saw  the  like  symptoms  in  the  face  of  Gan.  By  de- 
grees, he  began  to  touch  on  that  dissatisfaction  with  Charlemagne 
and  his  court,  which  he  knew  was  in  both  their  minds :  he 
lamented,  not  as  to  the  ambassador,  but  as  to  the  friend,  the  inju- 
ries which  lie  said  he  had  received  from  Charles  in  the  repeated 
attacks  on  his  dominions,  and  the  emperor's  wish  to  crown 
Orlando  king  of  them  ;  till  at  length  he  plainly  uttered  his  belief, 
that  if  that  tremendous  Paladin  were  but  dead,  good  men  would 
get  their  rights,  and  his  visitor  and  himself  have  all  things  at 
their  disposal. 

Gan  heaved  a  sigh,  as  if  he  was  unwillingly  compelled  to 
allow  the  force  of  what  the  king  said  ;  but,  unable  to  contain 
himself  long,  he  lifted  up  his  face,  radiant  with  triumphant  wick- 
edness, and  exclaimed,  "  Every  word  you  utter  is  truth.  Die  he 
must ;  and  die  also  must  Uliviero,  who  struck  me  that  foul  blow 
at  court.  Is  it  treachery  to  punish  atfronts  like  those  ?  I  have 
planned  every  thing — I  have  settled  every  thing  already  with 
their  besotted  master.  Orlando  could  not  be  expected  to  be 
brought  hither,  where  he  has  been  accustomed  to  look  for  a 
crown  ;  but  he  will  come  to  the  Spanish  borders- — to  Ronces- 
valles — for  the  purpose  of  receiving  the  tribute.  Charles  will 
await  him,  at  no  great  distance,  in  St.  John  Pied  de  Port.  Or- 
lando will  bring  but   a  small  band  with  him ;   you,  when  you 

15 


210        THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 


meet  him,  will  have  secretly  your  whole  army  at  your  back. 
You  surround  him  ;   and  who  receives  tribute  then  ?" 

The  new  Judas  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words,  when  the 
delight  of  him  and  his  associate  was  interrupted  by  a  change  in 
the  face  of  nature.  The  sky  was  suddenly  overcast ;  it  thun- 
dered and  lightened ;  a  laurel  was  split  in  two  from  head  to  foot ; 
the  fountain  ran  into  burning  blood ;  there  was  an  earthquake, 
and  the  carob-tree  under  which  Gan  was  sitting,  and  which  was 
of  the  species  on  which  Judas  Iscariot  hung  himself,  dropped 
some  of  its  fruit  on  his  head.  The  hair  of  the  head  rose  in 
horror. 

Marsilius,  as  well  as  Gan,  was  appalled  at  this  omen ;  but  on 
assembling  his  soothsayers,  they  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
laurel-tree  turned  the  omen  against  the  emperor,  the  successor  of 
tlie  Caesars  ;  though  one  of  them  renewed  the  consternation  of 
Gan,  by  saying  that  he  did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the 
tree  of  Judas,  and  intimating  that  perhaps  the  ambassador  could 
explain  it.  Gan  relieved  his  consternation  with  anger ;  the  habit 
of  wickedness  prevailed  over  all  considerations  ;  and  the  king 
prepared  to  march  for  Roncesvalles  at  the  head  of  all  his  forces. 

Gan  wrote  to  Charlemagne,  to  say  how  humbly  and  properly 
Marsilius  was  coming  to  pay  the  tribute  into  the  hands  of  Orlando, 
and  how  handsome  it  would  be  of  the  emperor  to  meet  him  half 
way,  as  agreed  upon,  at  St.  John  Pied  de  Port,  and  so  be  ready 
to  receive  him,  after  the  payment,  at  his  footstool.  He  added  a 
brilliant  account  of  the  tribute  and  its  accompanying  presents. 
They  included  a  crown  in  the  shape  of  a  garland  which  had  a 
carbuncle  in  it  that  gave  light  in  darkness  ;  two  lions  of  an  "  im- 
measurable length,  and  aspects  that  frightened  every  body ;" 
some  "  lively  buffalos,"  leopards,  crocodiles,  and  giraffes  ;  arms 
and  armour  of  all  sorts  ;  and  apes  and  monkeys  seated  among  the 
rich  merchandise  that  loaded  the  backs  of  the  camels.  This  im- 
aginary treasure  contained,  furthermore,  two  enchanted  spirits, 
called  "  Floro  and  Faresse,"  who  were  confined  in  a  mirror,  and 
were  to  tell  the  emperor  wonderful  things,  particularly  Floro 
(for  there  is  nothing  so  nice  in  its  details  as  lying)  ;  and  Or- 
lando was  to  have  heaps  of  caravans  full  of  Eastern  wealth,  and 
a  hundred  while  horses,  all  with  saddles  and  bridles  of  gold. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   ROJN'CESVALLES.  211 


There  was  a  beautiful   vest,  too,  for  Uliviero,  all   over  jewels, 
worth  ten  thousand  "  seraffi,"  or  more. 

The  good  emperor  wrote  in  turn  to  say  how  pleased  lie  was 
with  the  ambassador's  diligence,  and  that  matters  were  arranged 
precisely  as  he  wished.  His  court,  however,  had  its  suspicions 
still.  Nobody  could  believe  that  Gan  had  not  some  new  mischief 
in  contemplation.  Little,  nevertheless,  did  they  imagine,  after  tlic 
base  endeavours  he  had  but  lately  made  against  them,  that  he  had. 
immediately  plotted  a  new  and  greater  one,  and  that  his  object  in 
briniiiniz  Charles  into  the  neighbourhood  of  Roncesvalles  was  to 
deliver  liim  more  speedily  into  the  hands  of  TMarsilius,  in  the  event 
of  the  latter's  destruction  of  Orlando. 

Orlando,  however,  did  as  his  lord  and  sovereign  desired.  He 
went  to  Roncesvalles,  accompanied  by  a  moderate  train  of  war- 
riors, not  dreaming  of  the  atrocity  that  awaited  him.  Gan  him- 
self, meantime,  had  hastened  on  to  France  before  Marsilius,  in 
order  to  shew  himself  free  and  easy  in  the  presence  of  Charles, 
and  secure  the  success  of  his  plot ;  while  Marsilius,  to  make  as- 
surance doubly  sure,  brought  into  the  passes  of  Roncesvalles  no 
less  than  three  armies,  who  were  successively  to  fall  on  the  Pa- 
ladin, in  case  of  the  worst,  and  so  extinguish  him  with  numbers. 
He  had  also,  by  Gan's  advice,  brought  heaps  of  wine  and  good 
cheer  to  be  set  before  his  victims  in  the  first  instance  ;  "  for  that," 
said  the  traitor,  "  will  render  the  onset  the  more  effective,  the  feast- 
ers  being  unarmed  ;  and,  supposing  prodigies  of  valour  to  await 
even  the  attack  of  your  second  army,  you  will  have  no  trouble 
with  vour  third.  One  thing,  however,  I  must  not  forget,"  added 
he ;  "  mv  son  Baldwin  is  sure  to  be  with  Orlando ;  you  must 
take  care  of  his  life  for  my  sake." 

"  I  give  him  this  vest  off  my  own  body,"  said  the  king  ;  "  let 
him  wear  it  in  tlie  battle,  and  have  no  fear.  My  soldiers  shall 
be  directed  not  to  touch  him." 

Gan  went  away  rejoicing  to  France.  He  embraced  the  court 
and  his  sovereign  all  round,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had 
brought  them  nothing  but  blessings ;  and  the  old  king  wept  for 
very  tenderness  and  delight. 

"  Something  is  going  on  wrong,  and  looks  very  black,"  thought 
Malasi<^i,  the  good  wizard  :  "  and  Rinaldo  is  not  here,  and  it  is  in- 


212        THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 


dispensably  necessary  that  he  should  be.  I  must  find  out  where 
he  is,  and  Ricciardetto  too,  and  send  for  them  with  all  speed,  and 
at  any  price." 

Malagigi  called  up,  by  his  art,  a  wise,  terrible,  and  cruel  spirit, 
named  Ashtaroth  ;  no  light  personage  to  deal  with — no  little  spirit, 
such  as  plays  tricks  with  you  like  a  fairy.  A  much  blacker  vis- 
itant was  this. 

"  Tell  me,  and  tell  me  truly  of  Rinaldo,"  said  Malagigi  to  the 
spirit. 

Hard  looked  the  demon  at  the  Paladin,  and  said  nothing.  His 
aspect  was  clouded  and  violent.  He  wished  to  see  whether  his 
summoner  retained  all  the  force  of  his  art. 

The  enchanter,  with  an  aspect  still  cloudier,  bade  Ashtaroth 
lay  down  that  look.  While  giving  this  order,  he  also  made  signs 
indicative  of  a  disposition  to  resort  to  angrier  compulsion ;  and 
the  devil,  apprehending  that  he  would  confine  him  in  some  hateful 
place,  loosened  his  tongue,  and  said, "  You  have  not  told  me  what 
you  desire  to  know  of  Rinaldo." 

"  I  desire  to  know  what  he  has  been  doing,  and  where  he  is," 
returned  the  enchanter. 

"  He  has  been  conquering  and  baptising  the  world,  east  and 
west,"  said  the  demon,  "  and  is  now  in  Egypt  with  Ricciardetto." 

"  And  what  has  Gan  been  plotting  with  Marsilius,"  inquired 
Malagigi,  "  and  what  is  to  come  of  it  ?" 

"  On  neither  of  those  points  can  I  enlighten  you,"  said  the 
devil.  "I  was  not  attending  to  Gan  at  the  time,  and  we  fallen 
spirits  know  not  the  future.  Had  we  done  so,  we  had  not  been 
so  willing  to  incur  the  danger  of  falling.  All  I  discern  is, 
that,  by  the  signs  and  comets  in  the  heavens,  something  dreadful 
is  about  to  happen — something  very  strange,  treacherous,  and 
bloody  ;   and  that  Gan  has  a  seat  ready  prepared  for  him  in  hell." 

"  Within  three  days,"  cried  the  enchanter,  loudly,  "  fetch  Ri- 
naldo and  Ricciardetto  into  the  pass  of  Roncesvalles.  Do  it,  and 
I  hereby  undertake  never  to  summon  thee  more." 

"  Suppose  they  will  not  trust  themselves  with  me,"  said  the 
spirit. 

"  Enter  Rinaldo's  horse,  and  bring  him,  whether  he  trust  thee 
or  not." 


THE   BATTLE   OF   RONCESVALLES.  213 


"  It  shall  be  done,"  returned  the  demon  ;  "  and  my  serving- 
devil  Foul-Mouth,  or  Fire-Ilc<l,  shall  enter  the  horse  oi  Riceim-- 
detto.     Doubt  it  not.     Am  I  not  wise,  and  thyself  power/ul  V 

There  was  an  earthquake,  and  Ashtaroth  disappeared. 

Marsilius  has  now  made  his  first  movement  towards  the  de- 
struction of  Orlando,  by  sending  before  him  his  vassal-king  Blan- 
chardin  with  his  presents  of  wines  and  other  luxuries.  The 
temperate  but  courteous  hero  took  them  in  good  part,  and  distrib- 
uted them  as  the  traitor  wished  ;  and  then  Blanchardin,  on  pre- 
tence of  iroinn  forward  to  salute  Charlemaene  at  St.  John  Pied  de 
Port,  returned  and  put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  second  army, 
which  was  the  post  assigned  him  by  his  liege  lord.  The  device 
on  his  Hag  was  an  "  Apollo"  on  a  field  azure.  King  Falseron, 
whose  son  Orlando  had  slain  in  battle,  headed  the  first  army,  the 
device  of  which  was  a  black  figure  of  the  devil  Belphegor  on  a 
dapple-grey  field.  The  third  army  was  under  King  Balugante, 
and  had  for  ensign  a  Mahomet  with  golden  wings  in  a  field  of 
red.  Marsilius  made  a  speech  to  them  at  night,  in  which  he  con- 
fessed his  ill  faith^  but  defended  it  on  the  ground  of  Charles's 
hatred  of  their  religion,  and  of  the  example  of  "Judith  and  Holo- 
fernes."  He  said  that  he  had  not  come  there  to  pay  tribute,  and 
sell  his  countrymen  for  slaves,  but  to  make  all  Christendom  pay 
tribute  to  them  as  conquerors ;  and  he  concluded  by  recommend- 
ing to  their  good-will  the  son  of  his  friend  Gan,  whom  they  would 
know  by  the  vest  he  had  sent  him,  and  who  was  the  only  soul 
among  the  Christians  they  were  to  spare. 

This  son  of  Gan,  meantime,  and  several  of  the  Paladins  who 
were  disgusted  with  Charles's  credulity,  and  anxious  at  all  events 
to  be  with  Orlando,  had  joined  the  hero  in  the  fated  valley ;  so 
that  the  little  Christian  host,  considering  the  tremendous  valour 
of  their  lord  and  his  friends,  and  the  comparative  inefficiency  of 
that  of  the  inlidels,  were  at  any  rate  not  to  be  sold  for  nothing. 
Rinaldo,  alas  !  the  second  thunderbolt  of  Christendom,  was  des- 
tined not  to  be  there  in  time  to  save  their  lives.  He  could  only 
avenge  the  dreadful  tragedy,  and  prevent  still  worse  consequences 
to  the  whole  Christian  court  and  empire.  The  Paladins  had  in 
vain  begged  Orlando  to  be  on  his  guard  against  treachery,  and 
ocnd  for  a  more  numerous  body  of  men.     The  great  heart  of  the 


214        THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 


Champion  of  the  Faith  was  unwilling  to  think  the  worst  as  long 
as-  he  could  help  it.  He  refused  to  summon  aid  that  might  be 
superfluous ;  neither  would  he  do  any  thing  but  what  his  liege 
lord  had  desired.  And  yet  he  could  not  wholly  repress  a  misgiv- 
ing, A  shadow  had  fallen  on  his  heart,  great  and  cheerful  as  it 
was.  The  anticipations  of  his  friends  disturbed  him,  in  spite  of 
the  face  with  which  he  met  them.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  did  not, 
by  a  certain  instinctive  foresight,  expect  death  itself;  but  he  felt 
bound  not  to  encourage  the  impression.  Besides,  time  pressed  ; 
the  moment  of  the  looked-for  tribute  was  at  hand ;  and  little 
combinations  of  circumstances  determine  often  the  greatest  events. 

King  Blanchardin  had  brought  Orlando's  people  a  luxurious 
supper  ;  King  Marsilius  was  to  arrive  early  next  day  with  the 
tribute ;  and  Uliviero  accordingly,  with  the  morning  sun,  rode 
forth  to  reconnoitre,  and  see  if  he  could  discover  the  peaceful 
pomp  of  the  Spanish  court  in  the  distance.  Guottibuoffi  was  with 
him,  a  warrior  who  had  expected  the  very  worst,  and  repeatedly 
implored  Orlando  to  believe  it  possible.  Uliviero  and  he  rode  up 
the  mountain  nearest  them,  and  from  the  top  of  it  beheld  the  first 
army  of  Marsilius  already  forming  in  the  passes. 

"  O  Guottibuoffi  !"  exclaimed  he,  "  behold  thy  prophecies  come 
true  !  behold  the  last  day  of  the  glory  of  Charles  !  Every  where 
I  see  the  arms  of  the  traitors  around  us.  I  feel  Paris  tremble  all 
the  way  through  France,  to  the  ground  beneath  my  feet.  O 
Malagigi,  too  much  in  the  right  wert  thou  !  O  devil  Gan,  this 
then  is  the  consummation  of  thy  good  offices  !" 

Uliviero  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  galloped  back  down  the 
mountain  to  Orlando. 

"  Well,"  cried  the  hero,  "  what  news  ?" 

"  Bad  news,"  said  his  cousin  ;  "  such  as  you  would  not  hear 
of  yesterday.  Marsilius  is  here  in  arms,  and  all  the  world  has 
come  with  him." 

The  Paladins  pressed  round  Orlando,  and  entreated  him  to 
sound  his  horn,  in  token  that  he  needed  help.  His  only  answer 
was,  to  mount  his  horse,  and  ride  up  the  mountain  with  San- 
sonetto. 

As  soon,  however,  as  he  cast  forth  his  eyes  and  beheld  what 
was  round  about  him,  he  turned  in  sorrow,  and  looked  down  into 


THE   BATTLE   OF   RONCESVALLES.  215 


Roncesvalles,  and  said,  "  0  valley,  miserable   indeed  !   the  blood 
that  is  shed  in  thee  this  day  will  colour  thy  name  for  ever." 

Many  of  the  Paladins  had  ridden  after  him,  and  they  again 
pressed  him  to  sound  his  horn,  if  only  in  pity  to  his  own  people. 
He  said,  "If  Caesar  and  Alexander  were  here,  Scipio  and  Han- 
nibal, and  Nebuchadnezzar  with  all  his  flags,  and  Death  stared 
me  in  the  face  with  his  knife  in  his  hand,  never  would  I  sound 
my  horn  for  the  baseness  of  fear." 

Orlando's  little  camp  were  furious  against  the  Saracens.  They 
armed  themselves  with  the  greatest  impatience.  There  was 
nothing  but  lacing  of  helmets  and  mounting  of  horses ;  and  good 
Archbishop  Turpin  went  from  rank  to  rank,  exhorting  and  en- 
couraging the  warriors  of  Christ.  Accoutrements  and  habili- 
ments were  put  on  the  wrong  way ;  words  and  deeds  mixed  in 
confusion  ;  men  running  against  one  another  out  of  very  absorp- 
tion in  themselves ;  all  the  place  full  of  cries  of  "  Arm  !  arm  ! 
the  enemy  !"  and  the  trumpets  clanged  over  all  against  the 
mountain-cchoes. 

Orlando  and  his  captains  withdrew  for  a  moment  to  consulta- 
tion. He  fairly  groaned  for  sorrow,  and  at  first  had  not  a  word 
to  say  ;  so  wretched  he  felt  at  having  brought  his  people  to  die 
in  Roncesvalles. 

Uliviero  spoke  first.  He  could  not  resist  the  opportunity  of 
comforting  himself  a  little  in  his  despair,  with  referring  to  his 
unheeded  advice. 

"  You  see,  cousin,"  said  he,  "  what  has  come  at  last.  Would 
to  God  you  had  attended  to  what  I  said  ;  to  what  Malagigi  said ; 
to  what  we  all  said  !  I  told  you  Marsilius  was  nothing  but  an 
anointed  scoundrel.  Yet  forsooth,  he  was  to  bring  us  tribute  ! 
and  Charles  is  this  moment  expecting  his  mummeries  at  St.  John 
Pied  de  Port !  Did  ever  any  body  believe  a  word  that  Gan  said, 
but  Charles  ?  And  now  you  see  this  rotten  fruit  has  come  to  a 
head  ;  this  medlar  has  got  its  crown." 

Orlando  said  nothing  in  answer  to  Uliviero ;  for  in  truth  he  had 
nothing  to  say.  He  broke  away  to  give  orders  to  the  camp  ; 
bade  them  take  refreshment ;  and  then  addressing  both  officers 
and  men,  he  said,  "  I  confess,  that  if  it  had  entered  my  heart  to 
conceive  the  king  of  Spain  to  be  such  a  villain,  never  would  you 


i216  THE  BATTLE   OF  RONCESVALLES. 


have  seen  this  day.  He  has  exchanged  with  me  a  thousand 
courtesies  and  good  words ;  and  1  thought  that  the  worse  ene- 
mies we  had  been  before,  the  better  friends  we  had  become  now. 
I  fancied  every  human  being  capable  of  this  kind  of  virtue  on  a 
good  opportunity,  saving,  indeed,  such  base-hearted  wretches  as 
can  never  forgive  their  very  forgivers ;  and  of  these  I  certainly 
did  not  suppose  him  to  be  one.  Let  us  die,  if  we  must  die,  like 
honest  and  gallant  men ;  so  that  it  shall  be  said  of  us,  it  was  only 
our  bodies  that  died.  It  becomes  our  souls  to  be  invincible,  and 
our  glory  immortal.  Our  motto  must  be,  '  A  good  heart  and  no 
hope.'  The  reason  why  I  did  not  sound  the  horn  was,  partly  be- 
cause I  thought  it  did  not  become  us,  and  partly  because  our  liege 
lord  could  be  of  little  use,  even  if  he  heard  it.  Let  Gan  have 
his  glut  of  us  like  a  carrion  crow ;  but  let  him  find  us  under 
heaps  of  his  Saracens, — an  example  for  all  time.  Heaven,  my 
friends,  is  with  us,  if  earth  is  against  us.  Methinks  I  see  it  open 
this  moment,  ready  to  receive  our  souls  amidst  crowns  of  glory ; 
and  therefore,  as  the  cliampion  of  God's  church,  I  give  you  my 
benediction ;  and  the  good  archbishop  here  will  absolve  you ; 
and  so,  please  God,  we  shall  all  go  to  Heaven  and  be  happy." 

And  with  these  words  Orlando  sprang  to  his  horse,  crying, 
"  Away  against  the  Saracens  !"  but  he  had  no  sooner  turned  his 
face  than  he  wept  bitterly,  and  said,  "  O  holy  Virgin,  think  not 
of  me,  the  sinner  Orlando,  but  have  pity  on  these  thy  servants." 

Archbishop  Turpin  did  as  Orlando  said,  giving  the  whole  band 
his  benediction  at  once,  and  absolving  them  from  their  sins,  so 
that  every  body  took  comfort  in  the  thought  of  dying  for  Christ, 
and  thus  they  embraced  one  another,  weeping  ;  and  then  lance 
was  put  to  thigh,  and  the  banner  was  raised  that  was  won  in  the 
jousting  at  Aspramont. 

And  now  with  a  mighty  dust,  and  an  infinite  sound  of  horns, 
and  tambours,  and  trumpets,  which  came  filling  the  valley,  the 
first  army  of  the  infidels  made  its  appearance,  horses  neighing, 
and  a  thousand  pennons  flying  in  the  air.  King  Falseron  led 
them  on,  saying  to  his  officers,  "  Now,  gentlemen,  recollect  what 
I  said.  The  first  battle  is  for  the  leaders  only  ; — and,  above  all, 
let  nobody  dare  to  lay  a  finger  on  Orlando.     He  belongs  to  my- 


THE   BATTLE   OF   RONCESVALLES.  217 

self.     The  revenge  of  my  son's  death  is  mine.     I  will  cut  the 
man  clown  that  comes  between  us." 

"Now,  friends,"  said  Orlando,  "every  man  for  liimsclf,  and 
St.  Michael  for  us  all.  There  is  no  one  here  that  is  not  a  perfect 
kniirjit." 

And  he  might  well  say  it ;  for  the  flower  of  all  France  was 
there,  except  Rinaldo  and  Ricciardctto ;  every  man  a  picked  man ; 
all  friends  and  constant  companions  of  Orlando.  There  was 
Richard  of  Normandy,  and  Guottibuoffi,  and  Uliviero,  and  Count 
Anselm,  and  Avolio,  and  Avino,  and  the  gentle  Berlinghieri,  and 
his  brother,  and  Sansonetto,  and  the  good  Duke  Egibard,  and  As- 
tolfo  the  Englishman,  and  Angiolin  of  Cayona,  and  all  the  other 
Paladins  of  France,  excepting  those  two  whom  I  have  mentioned. 
And  so  the  captains  of  the  little  troop  and  of  the  great  array  sat 
looking  at  one  another,  and  singling  one  another  out,  as  the  latter 
came  on  ;  and  then  either  side  began  raising  their  war-cries,  and 
the  mob  of  the  infidels  halted,  and  the  knights  put  spear  in  rest, 
and  ran  for  a  while,  two  and  two  in  succession,  each  one  against 
the  other. 

Astolfo  was  the  first  to  move.  He  ran  against  Arlotto  of  Soria ; 
and  Angiolin  then  ran  against  Malducco  ;  and  IMazzarigi  the 
Renegade  came  against  Avino  ;  and  Uliviero  was  borne  forth  by 
his  horse  Rondel,  who  couldn't  stand  still,  against  Malprimo,  the 
first  of  the  Captains  of  Falseron. 

And  now  lances  began  to  be  painted  red,  without  any  brush 
but  themselves ;  and  the  new  colour  extended  itself  to  the  buck- 
lers, and  the  cuishes,  and  the  cuirasses,  and  the  trappings  of  the 
steeds. 

Astolfo  thrust  his  antagonist's  body  out  of  the  saddle,  and  his 
soul  into  the  other  world  ;  and  Angiolin  gave  and  took  a  terrible 
blow  with  Malducco ;  but  his  horse  bore  him  onward  ;  and  Avino 
had  something  of  the  like  encounter  with  jMazzarigi ;  but  Uliviero, 
thousfh  he  received  a  thrust  which  hurt  him,  sent  his  lance  right 
through  the  heart  of  Malprimo. 

Falseron  was  daunted  at  this  blow.  "  Verily,"  thought  he, 
"  this  is  a  miracle."  Uliviero  did  not  press  on  among  the  Sara- 
cens, his  wound  was  too  painful  ;  but  Orlando  now  put  himself 
and  his  whole  band  into  motion,  and  you  may  guess  what  an  up- 


218        THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLLES. 


roar  ensued.  The  sound  of  the  rattling  of  the  blows  and  helmets 
was  as  if  the  forge  of  Vulcan  had  been  thrown  open.  Falseron 
beheld  Orlando  coming  so  furiously,  that  he  thought  him  a  Luci- 
fer who  had  burst  his  chain,  and  was  quite  of  another  mind  than 
when  he  proposed  to  have  him  all  to  himself.  On  the  contrary, 
he  recommended  himself  to  his  gods  ;  and  turning  away,  begged 
for  a  more  auspicious  season  of  revenge.  But  Orlando  hailed 
and  arrested  him  with  a  terrible  voice,  saying,  "  O  thou  traitor  ! 
Was  this  the  end  to  which  old  quarrels  were  made  up  ?  Dost 
thou  not  blush,  thou  and  thy  fellow-traitor  Marsilius,  to  have 
kissed  me  on  the   cheek  like  a  Judas,  when  last  thou  wert  in 

France?" 

Orlando  had  never  shewn  such  anger  in  his  countenance  as  he 
did  that  day.  He  dashed  at  Falseron  with  a  fury  so  swift,  and 
at  the  same  time  a  mastery  of  his  lance  so  marvellous,  that  though 
he  plunged  it  in  the  man's  body  so  as  instantly  to  kill  him,  the 
body  did  not  move  in  the  saddle.  The  hero  himself,  as  he  rush- 
ed onwards,  was  fain  to  see  the  end  of  a  stroke  so  perfect,  and, 
turning  his  horse  back,  he  touched  the  carcass  with  his  sword, 
and  it  fell  on  the  instant.  They  say,  that  it  had  no  sooner  fallen 
than  it  disappeared.  People  got  off  their  horses  to  lift  up  the  body, 
for  it  seemed  to  be  there  still,  the  armour  being  left ;  but  when 
they  came  to  handle  the  armour,  it  was  found  as  empty  as  the 
shell  that  is  cast  by  a  lobster.  O  new,  and  strange,  and  porten- 
tous event !  proof  manifest  of  the  anger  with  which  God  regards 
treachery. 

When  the  first  infidel  army  beheld  their  leader  dead,  such  fear 
fell  upon  them,  that  they  were  for  leaving  the  field  to  the  Pala- 
dins ;  but  they  were  unable.  Marsilius  had  drawn  the  rest  of 
his  forces  round  the  valley  like  a  net,  so  that  their  shoulders  were 
turned  in  vain.  Orlando  rode  into  the  thick  of  them,  with  Count 
Anselm  by  his  side.  He  rushed  like  a  tempest ;  and  wherever 
he  went,  thunderbolts  fell  upon  helmets.  The  Paladins  drove 
here  and  there  after  them^  each  making  a  whirlwind  round  about 
him  and  a  bloody  circle.  Uliviero  was  again  in  the  7Jielee  ;  and 
Walter  of  Amulion  threw  himself  into  it ;  and  Baldwin  roared 
like  a  lion  ;  and  Avino  and  Avolio  reaped  the  wretches'  heads 
like  a  turnip-field  :  nnd  blows  blinded  men's  eyes  ;    and  Arch- 


THE   BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES.  219 


bishop  Turpin  himself  had  changed  his  crozicr  lor  a  kiiicc,  and 
chased  a  new  flock  before  him  to  the  mountains. 

Yet  what  could  be  done  against  foes  without  number  ?  Multi- 
tudes iill  up  the  spaces  leil  by  the  dead  without  stopping.  Mar. 
silius,  from  his  anxious  and  raging  post,  constantly  pours  them  in. 
Tlie  Paladins  are  as  units  to  thousands.  Why  tarry  the  horses 
of  Rinaldo  and  Ricciardetto  ? 

The  horses  did  not  tarry  ;  but  fate  had  been  quicker  than  en- 
chantment. Ashtaroth,  nevertheless,  had  presented  himself  to  Ri- 
naldo in  Egypt,  as  though  he  had  issued  out  of  a  flash  of  light- 
ning. After  telling  his  mission,  and  giving  orders  to  hundreds  of 
invisible  spirits  round  about  him  (for  the  air  was  full  of  them), 
he  and  Foul-Mouth,  his  servant,  entered  the  horses  of  Rinaldo  and 
Ricciardetto,  which  began  to  neigh  and  snort  and  leap  with  the 
fiends  within  them,  till  otfthey  flew  through  the  air  over  the  pyr- 
amids, crowds  of  spirits  going  like  a  tempest  before  them.  Ric- 
ciardetto shut  his  eyes  at  first,  on  perceiving  himself  so  high  in 
the  air  ;  but  he  speedily  became  used  to  it,  though  he  looked  down 
on  the  sun  at  last.  In  this  manner  they  passed  the  desert,  and 
the  sea-coast,  and  the  ocean,  and  swept  the  tops  of  the  Pyrenees, 
Ashtaroth  talking  to  them  of  wonders  by  the  way  ;  for  he  was 
one  of  the  wisest  of  the  devils,  and  knew  a  great  many  things 
which  were  then  unknown  to  man.  He  laughed,  for  instance,  as 
they  went  over  sea^  at  the  notion,  among  other  vain  fancies, 
that  nothing  was  to  be  found  beyond  the  pillars  of  Hercules  ; 
"  for,"  said  he,  '•  the  earth  is  round,  and  the  sea  has  an  even  sur- 
face all  over  it ;  and  there  are  nations  on  the  other  side  of  the 
globe,  who  walk  with  their  feet  opposed  to  yours,  and  worship 
other  eods  than  the  Christians." 

"  Hah  !"  said  Rinaldo  ;  "  and  may  I  ask  whether  they  can  be 
saved  ?" 

"  It  is  a  bold  tiling  to  ask,"  said  the  devil  ;  "  but  do  you  take 
the  Redeemer  for  a  partisan,  and  fancy  he  died  for  you  only  ? 
Be  assured  he  died  for  the  whole  world.  Antipodes  and  all.  Per- 
haps not  one  soul  will  be  left  out  the  pale  of  salvation  at  last,  but 
the  whole  human  race  adore  the  truth,  and  find  mercy.  The 
Christian  is  the  only  true  religion  ;  but  Heaven  loves  all  good- 
ness that  believes  honestly,  whatsoever  the  belief  may  be." 


220        THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 


Rinaldo  was  mightily  taken  with  the  humanity  of  the  devil's 
opinions  ;  but  they  were  now  approaching  the  end  of  their  jour- 
ney, and  began  to  hear  the  noise  of  the  battle ;  and  he  could  no 
longer  think  of  any  thing  but  the  delight  of  being  near  Orlando, 
and  plunging  into  the  middle  of  it. 

"  You  shall  be  in  the  very  heart  of  it  instantly,"  said  his  bear- 
er. ''I  love  you,  and  would  fain  do  all  you  desire.  Do  not  fancy 
that  all  nobleness  of  spirit  is  lost  among  us  people  below.  You 
know  what  the  proverb  says,  '  There's  never  a  fruit,  however  de- 
generate, but  will  taste  of  its  stock.'     I  was  of  a  diiferent  order 

of  beings  once,  and But  it  is  as  well  not  to  talk  of  happy 

times.     Yonder  is  Marsilius  ;   and  there  goes  Orlando.     Farewell, 
and  give  me  a  place  in  your  memory." 

Rinaldo  could  not  find  words  to  express  his  sense  of  the  devil's 
good-will,  nor  that  of  Foul-Mouth  himself.  He  said  :  "  Ashta- 
roth,  I  am  as  sorry  to  part  with  you  as  if  you  were  a  brother  ; 
and  I  certainly  do  believe  that  nobleness  of  spirit  exists,  as  you  say, 
among  your  people  below.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  both  some- 
times, if  you  can  come ;  and  I  pray  God  (if  my  poor  prayer  be 
worth  any  thing)  that  you  may  all  repent  and  obtain  his  pardon ; 
for  without  repentance,  you  know,  nothing  can  be  done  for  you." 

"  If  I  might  suggest  a  favour,"  returned  Ashtaroth,  "  since  you 
are  so  good  as  to  wish  to  do  me  one,  persuade  Malagigi  to  free  me 
from  his  service,  and  I  am  yours  for  ever.  To  serve  you  will  be 
a  pleasure  to  me.  You  will  only  have  to  say,  '  Ashtaroth,'  and 
my  good  friend  here  will  be  with  you  in  an  instant." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,"  cried  Rinaldo,  "  and  so  is  my  brother. 
I  will  write  Malagigi,  not  merely  a  letter,  but  a  whole  packet-full 
of  your  praises  ;  and  so  I  will  to  Orlando ;  and  you  shall  be  set 
free,  depend  on  it,  your  company  has  been  so  perfectly  agree- 
able." 

"  Your  humble  servant,"  said  Ashtaroth,  and  vanished  with  his 
companion  like  lightning. 

But  thev  did  not  jro  far. 

There  was  a  little  chapel  by  the  road-side  in  Roncesvalles, 
which  had  a  couple  of  bells  ;  and  on  the  top  of  that  chapel  did 
the  devils  place  themselves,  in  order  that  they  might  catch  the 
souls  of  the  infidels  as  they  died,  and  so  carry  them  off  to  the  in- 


THE   BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES.  221 

fernal  regions.  Guess  if  their  wings  had  plenty  to  do  that  day  ! 
Guess  if  Minos  and  Rhadamantlius  were  busy,  and  Charon  sung 
in  his  boat,  and  Lucifer  hugged  himself  for  joy.  Guess,  also,  if 
the  tables  in  heaven  groaned  with  nectar  and  anibrosia,  and  good 
old  St.  Peter  had  a  dry  hair  in  his  beard. 

The  two  Paladins,  on  their  horses,  dropped  right  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  Saracens,  and  began  making  such  havoc  about  them, 
that  jMarsilius,  who  overlooked  the  fight  from  a  mountain,  thought 
his  soldiers  had  turned  one  against  the  other.  He  therefore  de- 
scended in  fury  with  his  third  army ;  and  Rinaldo,  seeing  him 
coming,  said  to  Ricciardetto,  "  We  had  better  be  off  here,  and 
join  Orlando  ;"  and  with  these  w^ords,  he  gave  his  horse  one  turn 
round  before  he  retreated,  so  as  to  enable  his  sword  to  make  a 
bloody  circle  about  him  ;  and  stories  say,  that  he  sheared  off 
twenty  heads  in  the  twirl  of  it.  He  then  dashed  through  the  as- 
tonished beholders  towards  the  battle  of  Orlando,  who  guessed  it 
could  be  no  other  than  his  cousin,  and  almost  dropped  from  his 
liorse,  out  of  desire  to  meet  him.  Ricciardetto  followed  Rinaldo  ; 
and  Uliviero  coming  up  at  the  same  moment,  the  rapture  of  the 
whole  party  is  not  to  be  expressed.  They  almost  died  for  joy. 
After  a  thousand  embraces,  and  questions,  and  explanations,  and 
expressions  of  astonishment  (for  the  infidels  held  aloof  awhile,  to 
take  breath  from  the  horror  and  mischief  they  had  undergone), 
Orlando  refreshed  his  little  band  of  heroes,  and  then  drew  Rinal- 
do apart,  and  said,  "  O  my  brother,  I  feel  such  delight  at  seeing 
you,  I  can  hardly  persuade  myself  I  am  not  dreaming.  Heaven 
be  praised  for  it.  I  have  no  other  wish  on  earth,  now  that  I  see 
you  before  I  die.  Why  didn't  you  write  ?  But  never  mind. 
Here  you  are,  and  I  shall  not  die  for  nothing." 

"  I  did  write,"  said  Rinaldo,  "  and  so  did  Ricciardetto  ;  but 
villany  intercepted  our  letters.  Tell  me  what  to  do,  my  dear 
cousin  ;  for  time  presses,  and  all  the  world  is  upon  us." 

"  Gan  has  brought  us  here,"  said  Orlando,  "  under  pretence 
of  receiving  tribute  from  Marsilius — you  see  of  what  sort ;  and 
Charles,  poor  old  man,  is  waiting  to  receive  his  homage  at  the 
town  of  St.  John  !  I  have  never  seen  a  lucky  day  since  you  left 
us.     I  believe  I  have  done  for  Charles  more  than  in  duty  bound, 


\ 


222        THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 

and  that  my  sins  pursue  me,  and  I  and  mine  must  all  perish  in 
Roncesvalles." 

"  Look  to  Marsilius,"  exclaimed  Rinaldo  ;  "  he  is  right  upon 
us." 

Marsilius  was  upon  them,  surely  enough,  at  once  furious  and 
frightened  at  the  coming  of  the  new  Paladins  ;  for  his  camp,  nu- 
merous as  it  was,  had  not  only  held  aloof,  but  turned  about  to  fly 
like  herds  before  the  lion ;  so  he  was  forced  to  drive  them  back, 
and  bring  up  his  other  troops,  reasonably  thinking  that  such 
numbers  must  overwhelm  at  last,  if  they  could  but  be  kept  to- 
gether. 

Not  the  less,  however,  for  this,  did  the  Paladins  continue  to 
fight  as  if  with  joy.  They  killed  and  trampled  wheresoevr  they 
went  ;  Rinaldo  fatiguing  himself  with  sending  infinite  numbers 
of  souls  to  Ashtaroth,  and  Orlando  making  a  bloody  passage 
towards  Marsilius,  whom  he  hoped  to  settle  as  he  had  done 
Falseron. 

In  the  course  of  this  his  tremendous  progress,  the  hero  struck 
a  youth  on  the  head,  whose  helmet  was  so  good  as  to  resist  the 
blow,  but  at  the  same  time  flew  off;  and  Orlando  seized  him  by 
the  hair  to  kill  him.  "  Hold  !"  cried  the  youth,  as  loud  as  want 
of  breath  could  let  him  ;  "  you  loved  my  father — I'm  Bujaforte." 

The  Paladin  had  never  seen  Bujaforte  ;  but  he  saw  the  like- 
ness to  the  good  old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  his  father  ;  and  he  let 
go  the  youth's  hair,  and  embraced  and  kissed  him.  "  O  Buja- 
forte !"  said  he  ;  "  I  loved  him  indeed — my  good  old  man  ;  but 
what  does  his  son  do  here,  fighting  against  his  friend  ?" 

Bujaforte  was  a  long  time  before  he  could  speak  for  weeping. 
At  length  he  said,  "  Orlando,  let  not  your  noble  heart  be  pained 
with  ill  thoughts  of  my  father's  son.  I  am  forced  to  be  here  by 
my  lord  and  master  Marsilius.  I  had  no  friend  left  me  in  the 
world,  and  he  took  me  into  his  court,  and  has  brought  me  here 
before  I  knew  what  it  was  for  ;  and  I  have  made  a  shew  of  fight- 
ing, but  have  not  hurt  a  single  Christian.  Treachery  is  on  every 
side  of  you.  Baldwin  himself  has  a  vest  given  him  by  Mar- 
silius, that  every  body  may  know  the  son  of  his  friend  Gan, 
and  do  him  no  injury.  See  there — look  how  the  lances  avoid 
him." 


THE   BATTLE   OF   RONCESVALLES.  2t23 

''Put  your  helmet  on  again,"  said  Orlando,  "and  beiiave  just 
as  you  have  done.  Never  will  your  father's  friend  be  an  enemy 
to  the  son.     Only  take  care  not  to  come  across  llinaldo." 

The  hero  then  turned  in  fury  to  look  for  Baldwin,  who  was 
hasteninix  towards  him  ut  that  moment  with  friendliness  in  his 
looks. 

"  'Tis  strange,"  said  Baldwin  ;  "  I  liave  done  my  duty  as  well 
as  I  could,  yet  no  body  will  come  against  me.  I  have  slain  right 
and  left,  and  cannot  comprehend  what  it  is  that  makes  the  stoutest 
infidels  avoid  me." 

"  Take  off  your  vest,"  cried  Orlando,  contemptuously,  "  and 
you  will  soon  discover  the  secret,  if  you  wish  to  know  it.  Your 
lather  has  sold  us  to  Marsilius,  all  but  his  honourable  son." 

"  If  my  flither,"  cried  Baldwin,  impetuously  tearing  off  the 
vest,  "  has  been  such  a  villain,  and  I  escape  dying  any  longer, 
by  God  !  I  will  plunge  this  sword  through  his  heart.  But  I  am 
no  traitor,  Orlando ;  and  you  do  me  wrong  to  say  it.  You  do 
me  foul  dishonour,  and  I'll  not  survive  it.  Never  more  shall 
you  behold  me  alive." 

Baldwin  spurred  off  into  the  fight,  not  v.aiting  to  hear  another 
word  from  Orlando,  but  constantly  crying  out,  "  You  have  done 
me  dishonour  ;"  and  Orlando  was  very  sorry  for  what  he  had 
said,  for  he  perceived  that  the  youth  was  in  despair. 

And  now  the  fiorht  ra7ed  bevond  all  it  had  done  before  :  and 
the  Paladins  themselves  began  to  fall,  the  enemy  were  driven 
forward  in  such  multitudes  by  Marsilius.  There  was  unhorsing 
of  foes,  and  re-seating  of  friends,  and  great  cries,  and  anguish, 
and  unceasing  labour  ;  and  twenty  Pagans  went  down  for  one 
Christian  ;  but  still  the  Christians  fell.  One  Paladin  disappeared 
after  another,  havinjr  too  much  to  do  for  mortal  men.  Some 
could  not  make  way  through  the  press  for  very  fatigue  of  killing, 
and  others  were  liampered  with  the  falling  horses  and  men. 
Sansonetto  was  thus  beaten  to  earth  by  the  club  of  Grandonio  ; 
and  \V^alter  d'Amulion  had  his  shoulders  broken  ;  and  Angiolin 
of  Bayonxi,  having  lost  his  lance,  was  thrust  down  by  Marsilius, 
and  Angiolin  of  Bellonda  by  Sirionne  ;  and  Berlinghieri  and  Ot- 
tone  are  gone  ;  and  then  Astolfo  went,  in  revenge  of  whose  death 
Orlando  turned  the  spot  on  which  he  died  into  a  gulf  of  Saracen 


224        THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 


blood.  Rinaldo  met  the  luckless  Bujaforte,  who  had  just  begun 
to  explain  how  he  seemed  to  be  fighting  on  the  side  which  his 
father  hated,  when  the  impatient  hero  exclaimed,  "  He  who  is 
not  with  me  is  against  me  ;"  and  gave  him  a  volley  of  such  hor- 
rible cuffs  about  the  head  and  ears,  that  Bujaforte  died  without 
being  able  to  speak  another  word.  Orlando,  cutting  his  way  to  a 
spot  in  which  there  was  a  great  struggle  and  uproar,  found  the 
poor  youth  Baldwin,  the  son  of  Gan,  with  two  spears  in  his 
breast.  "  I  am  no  traitor  now,"  said  Baldwin ;  and  so  saying, 
fell  dead  to  the  earth  ;  and  Orlando  lilted  up  his  voice  and  wept, 
for  he  was  bitterly  sorry  to  have  been  the  cause  of  his  death. 
He  then  joined  Rinaldo  in  the  hottest  of  the  tumult  ;  and  all  the 
surviving  Paladins  2:athered  about  them,  includina:  Turpin  the 
archbishop,  who  fought  as  hardily  as  the  rest  ;  and  the  slaughter 
was  lavish  and  horrible,  so  that  the  eddies  of  the  wind  chucked 
the  blood  into  the  air,  and  earth  appeared  a  very  see  thing-caul- 
dron of  hell.  At  length  down  went  Uliviero  himself.  He  had 
become  blind  witli  his  own  blood,  and  smitten  Orlando  without 
knowing  him,  who  had  never  received  such  a  blow  in  his  life. 

"  How  now,  cousin  !"  cried  Orlando  ;  ••  have  you  too  gone  over 
to  the  enemy  ?'"' 

"  O,  my  lord  and  master,  Orlando,'"  cried  tlie  other,  "  I  ask 
your  pardon,  if  I  have  struck  you.  I  can  see  notliing — I  am 
dying.  The  traitor  Arcaliffe  has  stabbed  me  in  the  back  ;  but  I 
killed  him  for  it.  If  you  love  me.  lead  my  horse  into  tlie  thick  ot 
them,  so  tiiat  I  mav  not  die  unavenged.'"' 

"  I  shall  die  mvsclf  before  Ions:."  said  Orlando,  "  out  of  verv 
toil  and  grief;  so  we  will  go  together.  I  have  lost  all  hope,  all 
pride,  all  wish  to  live  any  longer  :  but  not  my  love  for  Uliviero. 
Come — let  us  give  them  a  few  blows  yet ;  let  them  see  what  you 
can  do  with  your  dying  hands.  One  faith,  one  death,  one  only 
wish  be  ours." 

Orlando  led  his  cousin's  horse  where  the  press  was  thickest, 
and  dreadful  was  the  strength  of  the  dvins:  man  and  of  his  half- 
dying  companion.  They  made  a  street,  through  which  they  pass- 
ed out  of  tlie  battle  ;  and  Orlando  led  his  cousin  awav  to  his  tent, 
and  said.  "  Wait  a  little  till  I  return,  tor  I  will  so  and  sound  the 
horn  on  the  hill  yonder." 


THE    IJAriLE   OF   RONCESVALLl>'.  99i 

"  'Tis  of  no  use,"  said  Uliviero  ;  "  and  my  «p.rit  is  faijt  going, 
and  desires  to  be  with  its  l^ord  and  Saviour.'*  He  would  have 
said  more,  but  his  words  came  from  him  imperfectly,  like  those 
of  a  man  m  a  dream  ;  only  his  cousin  gathered  that  he  meant  to 
commend  to  him  his  sister,  Orlando's  wife,  Alda  the  Fair,  of  whom 
indo<-d  the  great  Paladin  had  not  thought  so  much  in  this  world 
as  he  might  have  done.  And  with  these  ini[>erfect  words  he  ex- 
j»ired. 

But  Orlando  no  sooner  saw  him  deafl,  than  he  felt  as  if  he  was 
left  alone  on  the  earth  ;  and  he  was  quite  willing  to  leave  it ; 
only  he  wished  that  Charles  at  St.  John  Pied  de  Port  should  hear 
how  the  case  stood  l>eforc  he  went ;  and  so  he  took  up  the  horn, 
and  blew  it  three  times  with  such  force  that  the  blood  burst  out  of 
his  nose  and  mouth.  Turpin  says,  that  at  the  third  blast  the  horn 
broke  in  two. 

In  spite  of  all  the  noLse  of  the  battle,  the  sound  of  the  horn  broke 
over  it  like  a  voice  out  of  the  other  world.  They  say  that  bird« 
fell  dead  at  it,  and  that  the  whole  Saracen  army  drew  back  in 
terror.  But  fearfuller  still  was  its  effect  at  St.  John  Pied  de  Port. 
Charlemagne  was  sitting  in  the  rnidst  of  his  court  when  the  sound 
reached  him  ;  and  Gan  was  there.  The  emperor  was  t^ie  first  to 
hear  it. 

"  Do  you  hear  that  ?"  said  he  to  his  nobles.  "  Did  you  hear 
the  horn,  as  I  heard  it  ?" 

Upon  this  they  all  listened  ;  and  Gan  felt  his  heart  misgive  him. 

The  horn  sounded  the  second  time. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  said  Charles. 

"  Orlando  is  hunting,"  observed  Gan,  "  and  the  stag  is  kill- 
ed.  He  is  at  the  old  pastime  that  he  was  so  fond  of  in  Aspra- 
rnonte." 

But  when  the  horn  sounded  yet  a  third  time,  and  the  blast  was 
one  of  so  dreadful  a  vehemence,  every  body  looker!  at  the  other, 
and  then  they  all  looked  at  Gan  in  fury.  Charles  rose  from  his 
Beat.  "  This  is  no  hunting  of  the  stag,"  said  he.  "  The  sound 
goes  to  my  verj'  heart,  and,  I  confess,  makes  rne  tremble.  I  am 
awakened  out  of  a  great  dream.  O  Gan  !  O  Gan  !  Not  for 
thee  do  I  blush,  but  for  myself,  and  for  nobody  else.  O  my  God, 
what  is  to  be  done  !     But  whatever  is  to  be  done,  must  be  done 


226  IHE   BATTLE   OF   RONCESVALLES. 


quickly.  Take  this  villain,  gentlemen,  and  keep  him  in  hard 
prison.  O  foul  and  monstrous  villain !  Would  to  God  I  had  not 
lived  to  see  this  day !  O  obstinate  and  enormous  folly  !  O  Mal- 
agigi,  had  I  but  believed  thy  foresight !  'Tis  thou  wert  the  wise 
man,  and  I  the  grey-headed  fool." 

Ogier  the  Dane,  and  Namo  and  others,  in  the  bitterness  of  their 
grief  and  anger,  could  not  help  reminding  the  emperor  of  all  which 
they  had  foretold.  But  it  was  no  time  for  words.  They  put  the 
traitor  into  prison  ;  and  then  Charles,  with  all  his  court,  took  his 
way  to  Roncesvalles,  grieving  and  praying. 

It  was  afternoon  when  the  horn  sounded,  and  half  an  hour  af- 
ter it  when  the  emperor  set  out ;  and  meantime  Orlando  had  re- 
turned to  the  fight  that  he  might  do  his  duty,  however  hopeless, 
as  long  as  he  could  sit  his  horse,  and  the  Paladins  were  now  re- 
duced to  four ;  and  though  the  Saracens  suffered  themselves  to 
be  mowed  down  like  grass  by  them  and  their  little  band,  he  found 
his  end  approaching  for  toil  and  fever,  and  so  at  length  he  with- 
drew out  of  the  fight,  and  rode  all  alone  to  a  fountain  which  he 
knew  of,  where  he  had  before  quenched  his  thirst. 

His  horse  was  wearier  still  than  he,  and  no  sooner  had  its  mas- 
ter alighted,  than  the  beast,  kneeling  down  as  if  to  take  leave,  and 
to  say,  '•'  I  have  brought  you  to  your  place  of  rest,"  fell  dead  at 
his  feet.  Orlando  cast  water  on  him  from  the  fountain,  not  wish- 
ing to  believe  him  dead ;  but  when  he  found  it  to  no  purpose,  he 
grieved  for  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  human  being,  and  addressed 
him  by  name  in  tears,  and  asked  forgiveness  if  ever  he  had  done 
him  wrong.  They  say,  that  the  horse  at  these  words  once  more 
opened  his  eyes  a  little,  and  looked  kindly  at  his  master,  and  so 
stirred  never  more. 

They  say  also  that  Orlando  then,  summoning  all  his  strength, 
smote  a  rock  near  him  with  his  beautiful  sword  Durlindana,  think- 
ing to  shiver  the  steel  in  pieces,  and  so  prevent  its  falling  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy ;  but  though  the  rock  split  like  a  slate,  and  a 
deep  fissure  remained  ever  after  to  astonish  the  eyes  of  pilgrims, 
the  sword  remained  unhurt. 

"  O  strong  Durlindana,"  cried  he,  "  O  noble  and  worthy  sword, 
had  I  known  thee  from  the  first  as  I  know  thee  now,  never  would 
I  have  been  brought  to  this  pass." 


THE   BArrLE   OF   ROxNCESVALLES.  22? 

And  now  Riiuildo  and  Ricciardctto  and  Turj)in  came  up,  liav- 
ing  given  chase  to  tlie  Saracens  till  they  were  weary,  and  Orlando 
gave  joyful  welcome  to  his  cousin,  and  they  told  him  how  the 
battle  was  won,  and  then  Orlando  knelt  before  Turpin,  his  face  all 
in  tears,  and  begged  remission  of  his  sins,  and  confessed  them, 
and  Turpin  gave  him  absolution  ;  and  suddenly  a  light  came 
down  upon  him  from  heaven  like  a  rainbow,  accompanied  witli  a 
sound  of  music,  and  an  angel  stood  in  the  air  blessing  him,  and 
then  disappeared  ;  upon  which  Orlando  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  hilt 
of  his  sword  as  on  a  crucifix,  and  embraced  it  and  said,  "  Lord, 
vouchsafe  that  I  may  look  on  this  poor  instrument  as  on  the 
symbol  of  the  tree  upon  which  Thou  sufferedst  thy  unspeakable 
martyrdom  !"  and  so  adjusting  the  sword  to  his  bosom,  and  em- 
bracing it  closer,  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  appeared  like  a  creature 
seraphical  and  transfigured  ;  and  in  bowing  his  head  he  breathed 
out  his  pure  soul.  A  thunder  was  then  heard  in  the  heavens,  and 
the  heavens  opened  and  seemed  to  stoop  to  the  earth,  and  a  flock 
of  angels  was  seen  like  a  white  cloud  ascending  with  his  spirit, 
who  were  known  to  be  what  they  were  by  the  trembling  of  their 
wings.  The  white  cloud  shot  out  golden  fires,  so  that  the  whole 
air  was  full  of  them ;  and  the  voices  of  the  angels  mingled  in 
song  with  the  instruments  of  their  brethren  above,  which  made  an 
inexpressible  harmony,  at  once  deep  and  dulcet.  The  priestly 
warrior  Turpin,  and  the  two  Paladins,  and  the  hero's  squire  Te- 
rigi,  who  were  all  on  their  knees,  forgot  their  own  beings,  in 
following  the  miracle  with  their  eyes. 

It  was  now  the  office  of  that  squire  to  take  horse  and  ride  off 
to  the  emperor  at  St.  John  Pied  de  Port,  and  tell  him  of  all  that 
had  occurred  ;  but  in  spite  of  what  he  had  just  seen,  he  lay  for  a 
time  overwhelmed  with  grief.  He  then  rose,  and  mounted  his 
steed,  and  left  the  Paladins  and  the  archbishop  with  the  dead 
body,  who  knelt  about  it,  guarding  it  with  weeping  love. 

The  good  squire  Terigi  met  the  the  emperor  and  his  cavalcade 
comincr  towards  Roncesvalles,  and  alighted  and  fell  on  his  knees, 
telling  him  the  miserable  news,  and  how  all  his  people  were 
slain  but  two  of  his  Paladins,  and  himself,  and  the  good  arch- 
bishop. Charles  for  anguish  began  tearing  his  while  locks  ;  but 
Terigi  comforted  him  against  so  doing,  by  giving  an  account  of 


228        THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 


the  manner  of  Orlando's  death,  and  how  he  had  surely  gone  to 
heaven.  Nevertheless,  the  squire  himself  was  broken-hearted 
with  grief  and  toil ;  and  he  had  scarcely  added  a  denouncement 
of  the  traitor  Gan,  and  a  hope  that  the  emperor  would  appease 
Heaven  finally  by  giving  his  body  to  the  winds,  than  he  said, 
"  The  cold  of  death  is  upon  me ;"  and  so  he  fell  dead  at  the  em- 
peror's feet. 

Charles  was  ready  to  drop  from  his  saddle  for  wretchedness. 
He  cried  out,  "  Let  nobody  comfort  me  more.  I  will  have  no 
comfort.  Cursed  be  Gan,  and  cursed  this  horrible  day,  and  this 
place,  and  every  thing.  Let  us  go  on,  like  blind  miserable  men 
that  we  are,  into  Roncesvalles  ;  and  have  patience  if  we  can,  out 
of  pure  misery,  like  Job,  till  we  do  ail  that  can  be  done." 

So  Charles  rode  on  with  his  nobles ;  and  they  say,  that  for  the 
sake  of  the  champion  of  Christendom  and  the  martyrs  that  died 
with  him,  the  sun  stood  still  in  the  sky  till  the  emperor  had  seen 
Orlando,  and  till  the  dead  were  buried. 

Horrible  to  his  eyes  was  the  sight  of  the  field  of  Roncesvalles. 
The  Saracens,  indeed,  had  forsaken  it,  conquered ;  but  all  his  Pala- 
dins but  two  were  lefi;  on  it  dead ;  and  the  slaughtered  heaps  among 
which  they  lay  made  the  whole  valley  like  a  great  dumb  slaugh- 
ter-house, trampled  up  into  blood  and  dirt,  and  reeking  to  the  heat. 
The  very  trees  were  dropping  with  blood  ;  and  every  thing,  so  to 
speak,  seemed  tired  out,  and  gone  to  a  horrible  sleep. 

Charles  trembled  to  his  heart's  core  for  wonder  and  agony. 
After  dumbly  gazing  on  the  place,  he  again  cursed  it  with  a  sol- 
emn curse,  and  wished  that  never  grass  might  grow  within  it 
again,  nor  seed  of  any  kind,  neither  within  it,  nor  on  any  of  its 
mountains  around  with  their  proud  shoulders  ;  but  the  anger  of 
Heaven  abide  over  it  for  ever,  as  on  a  pit  made  by  hell  upon 
earth. 

Then  he  rode  on,  and  came  up  to  where  the  body  of  Orlando 
awaited  him  with  the  Paladins,  and  the  old  man,  weeping,  threw 
himself  as  if  he  had  been  a  reckless  youth  from  his  horse,  and 
embraced  and  kissed  the  dead  body,  and  said,  "  I  bless  thee,  Or- 
lando. I  bless  thy  whole  life,  and  all  that  thou  wast,  and  all  that 
thou  ever  didst,  and  thy  mighty  and  holy  valour,  and  the  father 
that  begot  thee  j    and  I  ask  pardon  of  thee  for  believing  those 


THE   BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES.  239 


who  broiiglit  tlicc  to  thine  end.  They  slitiU  have  their  rcwunl, 
O  thou  beloved  one  !  But,  indeed,  it  is  thou  thut  livcst,  and  I 
that  am  worse  than  dead," 

And  now,  beliokl  a  wonder.  For  the  emperor,  in  the  fervour  of 
his  heart  and  of  the  memory  of  what  had  passed  between  tliem, 
caHed  to  mind  that  Orhmdo  had  promised  to  give  him  his  sword, 
shoukl  he  die  before  him ;  and  he  lifted  up  his  voice  more  brave- 
ly, and  adjured  him  even  now  to  return  it  to  him  gladly  ;  and  it 
pleased  God  that  the  dead  body  of  Orlando  should  rise  on  its  feet, 
and  kneel  as  he  was  wont  to  do  at  the  feet  of  his  liege  lord,  and 
gladly,  and  with  a  smile  on  its  face,  return  the  sword  to  tlie  Em- 
peror Charles.  As  Orlando  rose,  the  Paladins  and  Turpin  knelt 
down  out  of  fear  and  horror,  especially  seeing  him  look  with  a 
stern  countenance  ;  but  when  they  saw  that  he  knelt  also,  and 
smiled,  and  returned  the  sword,  their  hearts  became  re-assured, 
and  Charles  took  the  sword  like  his  liege  lord,  though  trembling 
with  wonder  and  atfection  :  and  in  truth  he  could  hardly  clench 
his  fmgers  around  it. 

Orlando  was  buried  in  a  great  sepulchre  in  Aquisgrana,  and 
the  dead  Paladins  were  all  embalmed  and  sent  with  majestic  cav- 
alcades to  their  respective  counties  and  principalities,  and  every 
Christian  was  honourably  and  reverently  put  in  the  earth,  and 
recorded  among  the  martyrs  of  the  Church. 

But  meantime  the  flying  Saracens,  thinking  to  bury  their  own 
dead,  and  ignorant  of  what  still  awaited  them,  came  back  into  the 
valley,  and  Rinaldo  beheld  them  with  a  dreadful  joy,  and  shewed 
them  to  Charles.  Now  the  emperor's  cavalcade  had  increased 
every  moment ;  and  they  fell  upon  the  Saracens  with  a  new 
and  unexpected  battle,  and  the  old  emperor,  addressing  the  sword 
of  Orlando,  exclaimed,  "  My  strength  is  little,  but  do  thou  do  thy 
duty  to  thy  master,  thou  famous  sword,  seeing  that  he  returned  it 
to  me  smiling,  and  that  his  revenge  is  in  my  hands."  And  so 
saying,  he  met  Balugante,  the  leader  of  the  infidels,  as  he  came 
borne  along  by  his  frightened  horse  ;  and  the  old  man,  raising 
the  sword  with  both  hands,  cleaved  him,  with  a  delighted  mind,  to 
the  chin. 

O  sacred  Emperor  Charles  !  O  well-lived  old  man  !  Defender 
of  the  Faith  !  light  and  glory  of  the  old  time  !  thou  hast  cut  oil 

PART  II.  3 


230        THE  BATTLE  OF  RONCESVALLES. 

the  other  ear  of  Malchus,  and  shewn  how  rightly  thou  wert  born 
into  the  world,  to  save  it  a  second  time  from  the  abyss. 

Again  fled  the  Saracens,  never  to  come  to  Christendom  more  : 
but  Charles  went  after  them  into  Spain,  he  and  Rinaldo  and  Ric- 
ciardetto  and  the  good  Turpin ;  and  they  took  and  fired  Sara- 
gossa  ;  and  Marsilius  was  hung  to  the  carob-tree  under  which  he 
had  planned  his  villany  with  Gan  ;  and  Gan  was  hung,  and 
drawn  and  quartered,  in  Roncesvalles,  amidst  the  execrations  of 
the  country. 

And  if  you  ask,  how  it  happened  that  Charles  ever  put  faith  in 
such  a  wretch,  I  shall  tell  you  that  it  was  because  the  good  old 
emperor,  with  all  his  faults,  was  a  divine  man,  and  believed  in 
others  out  of  the  excellence  of  his  own  heart  and  truth.  And  such 
was  the  case  with  Orlando  himself. 


BOIARDO: 


Critical  Notice  of  Ijis  £ifc  aixb  ©cuius. 


CRITICAL    NOTICE 


OF 


BOIARDO'S  LIFE   AND   GENIUS. 


While  Puici  in  Florence  was  elevating  romance  out  of  tlie 
street-ballads,  and  laying  the  foundation  of  the  chivalrous  epic,  a 
poet  appeared  in  Lombardy  (whether  inspired  by  his  example  is 
uncertain)  who  was  destined  to  carry  it  to  a  graver  though  still 
cheerful  height,  and  prepare  the  way  for  the  crowning  glories  of 
Ariosto.  lo  some  respects  he  even  excelled  Ariosto :  in  all,  with 
the  exception  of  style,  shewed  himself  a  genuine  though  imma- 
ture master. 

Little  is  known  of  his  life,  but  that  little  is  very  pleasant.  It 
exhibits  him  in  the  rare  light  of  a  poet  who  was  at  once  rich,  ro- 
mantic, an  Arcadian  and  a  man  of  the  world,  a  feudal  lord  and 
an  indulgent  philosopher,  a  courtier  equally  beloved  by  prince 
and  people. 

]\Iatteo  Maria  Boiardo,  Count  of  Scandiano,  Lord  of  Arceto, 
Casalgrande,  (Sec,  Governor  of  Reggio,  and  Captain  of  the  cita- 
del of  Modena  (it  is  pleasant  to  repeat  such  titles  when  so  adorn- 

*  The  materials  for  the  biogra})liy  in  this  notice  liavc  been  gathered  from 
Tiraboschi  and  others,  but  more  immediately  from  the  copious  critical  memoir 
from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Paiiizzi,  in  that  gentleman's  admirable  edition  of  the  com- 
bined poems  of  Boiardo  and  Ariosto,  in  nine  volumes  octavo,  published  by  Mr. 
Pickerin<T.  I  have  been  under  obligations  to  this  work  in  the  notice  of  PuIl-i, 
and  shall  again  be  so  in  that  of  Boiardo's  successor;  but  I  must  not  a  third  time 
run  the  risk  of  omitting  to  give  it  my  thanks  (such  as  they  are),  and  of  earnestly 
recommending  every  lover  of  Italian  poetry,  who  can  afford  it,  to  possess  him- 
self of  tills  learrned,  entertaining,  and  only  satisfactory  edition  of  either  of  the 
Orlanilos.  The  author  writes  an  Enghsh  almost  as  correct  as  it  is  elegant;  and 
he  is  as  painstaking  as  he  is  lively. 


234  BOIARDO. 


ed),  is  understood  to  Imve  been  born  about  the  year  1434,  at 
Scandiano,  a  cas'de  at  the  foot  of  the  Apennines,  not  far  from 
Regeio,  and  famous  for  its  vines. 

He  was  of  an  ancient  family,  once  lords  of  Rubiera,  and  son 
of  Giovanni,  second  count  of  Scandiano,  and  Lucia,  a  lady  of 
a  branch  of  the  Strozzi  family  in  Florence,  and  sister  and  aunt 
of  Tito  and  Erole  Strozzi,  celebrated  Latin  poets.  His  parents 
appear  to  have  been  wise  people,  for  they  gave  him  an  education 
that  fitted  him  equally  for  public  and  private  life.  He  was  even 
taught,  or  acquired,  more  Greek  than  was  common  to  the  men 
of  letters  of  that  age.  His  whole  life  seems,  accordingly,  to 
have  been  divided,  with  equal  success,  between  his  duties  as  a 
servant  of  the  dukes  of  Modena,  both  military  and  civil,  and  the 
prosecution  of  his  beloved  art  of  poetry, — a  combination  of  pur- 
suits which  have  been  idly  supposed  incompatible.  Milton's 
poetry  did  not  hinder  him  from  being  secretary  to  Cromwell,  and 
an  active  partisan.  Even  the  sequestered  Spenser  was  a  states- 
man ;  and  poets  and  writers  of  fiction  abound  in  the  political  his- 
tories of  all  the  great  nations  of  Europe.  When  a  man  possess- 
es a  thorough  insight  into  any  one  intellectual  department  (ex- 
cept, perhaps,  in  certain  corners  of  science),  it  only  sharpens  his 
powers  of  perception  for  the  others,  if  he  chooses  to  apply  them. 

In  the  year  1469,  Boiardo  was  one  of  the  noblemen  who  went 
to  meet  the  Emperor  Frederick  the  Third  on  his  way  to  Ferrara, 
when  Duke  Borso  of  Modena  entertained  him  in  that  city.  Two 
years  afterwards,  Borso,  who  had  been  only  Marquis  of  Ferrara, 
received  its  ducal  title  from  the  Pope  ;  and  on  going  to  Rome  to 
be  invested  with  his  new  honours,  the  name  of  our  poet  is  again 
found  among  the  adorners  of  his  state.  A  few  days  after  his  re- 
turn home  this  prince  died  ;  and  Boiardo,  favoured  as  he  had 
been  by  him,  appears  to  have  succeeded  to  a  double  portion  of 
regard  in  the  friendship  of  the  new  duke,  Ercole,  who  was  more 
of  his  own  age. 

During  all  this  period,  from  his  youth  to  his  prime,  our  author 
varied  his  occupations  with  Italian  and  Latin  poetry ;  some  of  it 
addressed  to  a  lady  of  the  name  of  Antonia  Caprara,  and  some 
to  another,  whose  name  is  thought  to  have  been  Rosa ;  but  whe- 
ther -these  ladies  died,  or  his  love  was  diverted  elsewhere,  he  took 


HIS  LIFE  AND  GENIUS.  235 

to  wife,  ill  the  year  1472,  Taddca  Gonzaga,  of  the  noble  liouse 
of  that  name,  daughter  of  the  Count  of  NoveHara.  In  the 
course  of  the  same  year  he  is  supposed  to  have  begun  his 
great  poem.  A  popular  court  favourite,  in  the  prime  of  life, 
marrying  and  commencing  a  great  poem  nearly  at  one  and  the 
same  time,  presents  an  image  of  prosperity  singularly  delightful. 
By  this  lady  Boiardo  had  two  sons  and  four  daughters.  The 
vounscr  son,  Francesco  Maria,  died  in  his  childhood  :  but  tlie 
elder,  Camillo,  succeeded  to  his  father's  title,  and  left  an  heir  to 
it, — the  last,  I  believe,  of  the  name.  The  reception  given  to  the 
poet's  bride,  when  he  took  her  to  Scandiano,  is  said  to  have  been 
very  splendid. 

In  the  cnsuinor  year  the  duke  his  master  took  a  wife  himself. 
She  was  Eleonora,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Naples:  and  the 
newly-married  poet  was  among  the  noblemen  who  were  sent  to 
escort  her  to  Ferrara.  For  several  years  afterwards,  his  time 
was  probably  filled  up  with  the  composition  of  the  Orlando  In- 
7iamoralo,  and  the  entertainments  given  by  a  splendid  court.  He 
was  appointed  Governor  of  Reggio,  probably  in  1478.  At  the 
expiration  of  two  or  three  years  he  was  made  Captain  of  the  cit- 
adel of  Modena ;  and  in  1482  a  war  broke  out  with  the  Vene- 
tians, in  which  he  took  part,  for  it  interrupted  the  progress  of 
his  poem.  In  1484  he  returned  to  it;  but  ten  years  afterwards 
was  again  and  finally  interrupted  by  the  unprincipled  descent  of 
the  French  on  Italy  under  Charles  the  Eighth  ;  and  in  the  De- 
cember following  he  died.  The  Orlando  Innamorato  was  thus 
left  unfinished.  Eight  years  before  his  decease  the  author  pub- 
lished what  he  had  written  of  it  up  to  that  time,  but  the  first 
complete  edition  was  posthumous.  The  poet  was  writing  when 
the  French  came  :  he  breaks  off  with  an  anxious  and  bitter  no- 
tice of  the  interruption,  though  still  unable  to  deny  himself  a 
last  word  on  the  episode  which  he  was  relating,  and  a  hope  that 
lie  should  conclude  it  another  time. 

"  Mcntrc  chc  io  canto,  o  Dio  rcdcntorc, 
Vcilo  r  Italia  tutta  a  fiamma  c  foco, 
Per  questi  Galli,  che  con  gran  valore 
Vcngon,  per  disertar  non  so  che  loco : 


236  BOIARDO. 


^ 


Per6  vi  lascio  in  questo  vano  amore 

Di  Fiordespina  ardente  poco  a  poco: 
Un'  altra  volta,  se  mi  iia  concesso, 
Racconterovvi  il  tutto  per  espresso." 

But  while  I  sing,  mine  eyes,  great  God !  behold 

A  flaming  fire  light  all  the  Italian  sky, 
Brouo"ht  by  these  French,  who,  with  their  myriads  bold, 

Come  to  lay  waste,  I  know  not  where  or  why. 
Therefore,  at  present,  I  must  leave  untold 

How  love  misled  poor  Fiordespina's  eye.* 
Another  time,  Fate  willing,  I  shall  tell. 

From  first  to  last,  how  every  thing  befell, 

/  Besides  the  Orlando  Innamorato,  Boiardo  wrote  a  variety  of 
prose  works,  a  comedy  in  verse  on  the  subject  of  Timon,  lyrics 
of  great  elegance,  with  a  vein  of  natural  feeling  running  through 
them,  and  Latin  poetry  of  a  like  sort,  not,  indeed,  as  classical  in 
its  style  as  that  of  Politian  and  the  other  subsequent  revivers  of 
the  ancient  manner,  but  perhaps  not  the  less  interesting  on  that 
account ;  for  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  a  thorough  copyist  in  style 
expressing  his  own  thorough  feelings.  Mr.  Panizzi,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  promised  the  world  a  collection  of  the  miscellaneous 
poems  of  Boiardo  ;  but  we  have  not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing them.  In  his  life  of  the  poet,  however,  he  has  given  several 
specimens,  both  Latin  and  Italian,  which  are  extremely  agreeable. 

^s  The  Latin  poems  consist  of  ten  eclogues  and  a  few  epigrams ; 
but  the  epigrams,  this  critic  tells  us,  are  neither  good  nor  on  a  fit- 
ting subject,  being  satirical  sallies  against  Nicolo  of  Este,  who 
had  attempted  to  seize  on  Ferrara,  and  been  beheaded.  Boiardo 
was  not  of  a  nature  qualified  to  indulge  in  bitterness.  A  man  of 
his  chivalrous  disposition  probably  misgave  himself  while  he  was 
writing  these  epigrams.  Perhaps  he  suffered  them  to  escape  his 
pen  out  of  friendship  for  the  reigning  branch  of  the  family.  But 
it  must  be  confessed,  that  some  of  the  best-natured  men  have  too 
often  lost  sight  of  their  higher  feelings  during  the  pleasure  and 
pride  of  composition. 

With  respect  to  the  comedy  of  Timon,  if  the  whole  of  it  is  writ- 

-^     ten  as  well  as  the  concluding  address  of  the  misanthrope  (which 

*  She  had  taken  a  damsel  m  male  attire  for  a  man. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  237 

Mr.  Panizzi  has  extracted  into  his  pages),  it  must  be  very  pleas- 
ant.  Timon  conceals  a  treasure  in  a  tomb,  and  thinks  he  has 
balHed  some  knaves  who  had  a  design  upon  it.  He  therefore 
takes  leave  of  his  audience  with  the  following  benedictions  : 

'•  Pur  ho  scacciatc  qiieste  due  formiche, 
Che  raspav;mo  1'  oro  alia  niia  buca, 
Or  vadan  pur,  che  Dio  Ic  malediche. 

Cotal  fortuna  a  casa  li  conduca. 
Clie  lor  fiacchi  le  gambe  al  priiuo  passo, 
E  ncl  secondo  1'  osso  della  nuca. 

Voi  altri,  che  ascoltate  giuso  al  basso, 
Chiedete,  se  volete  alcuna  cosa, 
Prima  ch'  io  parta,  pcrchfe  mo  vi  lasso. 

Bench  6  abbia  1'  alma  irata  e  disdegnosa, 
Da  inmusti  oltraggi  combattuta  e  vinta, 
A  voi  gift,  non  1'  avr6  tanto  ritrosa. 

In  me  non  b  pictade  al  tutto  estinta : 
Faccia  di  voi  la  prova  clii  gli  pare, 
Sino  alia  corda,  che  mi  trovo  cinta ; 

Gli  prester6,  volendosi  impiccarc." 

So !  I've  got  rid  of  these  two  creeping  things, 
That  fain  would  have  scratched  up  my  buried  gold. 
They're  gone;  and  may  the  curse  of  God  go  with  them! 
May  they  reach  home  just  in  good  time  enough 
To  break  their  legs  at  the  first  step  in  doors, 
And  necks  i'  the  second ! — And  now  then,  as  to  you, 
Good  audience, — groundlings, — folks  who  love  low  places, 
You  too  perhaps  would  fain  get  something  of  me, 
Ere  I  take  leave. — Well ; — angered  though  I  be, 
Scornful  and  torn  with  race  at  being  ground 
Into  the  dust  with  wrong,  I'm  not  so  lost 
To  all  concern  and  charity  for  others 
As  not  to  be  still  kind  enough  to  part 
With  something  near  to  me — something  that's  wound 
About  my  very  self     Here,  sirs ;  mark  this ; — 

[  Untying  the  cord  round  his  xcaist. 
Let  any  that  would  put  me  to  the  test. 
Take  it  with  all  my  heart,  and  hang  themselves. 

The  comedy  of  Timon,  which  was  chiefly  taken  from  Lucian, 
and  one,  if  not  more,  of  Boiardo's  prose  translations  from  other 

3* 


238  EOIARDO. 


ancients,  were  written  at  the  request  of  Duke  Ercole,  who  was  a 
great  lover  of  dramatic  versions  of  this  kind,  and  built  a  theatre 
for  their  exhibition  at  an  enormous  expense.  These  prose  trans, 
lations  consist  of  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass,  Herodotus  (the  Duke's 
order),  the  Golden  Ass  of  Lucian,  Xenophon's  Cyropmdia  (not 
printed),  Emilius  Probus  (also  not  printed,  and  supposed  to  be 
Cornelius  Nepos),  and  Riccobaldo's  credulous  Historia  Univer- 
salis, with  additions.  It  seems  not  improbable,  that  he  also  trans- 
lated Homer  and  Diodorus  ;  and  Doni  the  bookmaker  asserts,  that 
he  wrote  a  work  called  the  Testamento  delV  Anima  (the  Soul's 
Testament)  :  but  Mr.  Panizzi  calls  Doni  "  a  barefaced  impostor  ;" 
and  says,  that  as  the  work  is  mentioned  by  nobody  else,  we  may 
be  "  certain  that  it  never  existed,"  and  that  the  title  was  "  a  for- 
gery of  the  impudent  priest." 

Nothing  else  of  Boiardo's  writing;  is  known  to  exist,  but  a  col- 
lection  of  official  letters  in  the  archives  of  Modena,  which,  accord- 
ing to  Tiraboschi,  are  of  no  great  importance.  It  is  difficult  to 
suppose,  however,  that  they  would  not  be  worth  looking  at.  The 
author  of  the  Orlando  Innamorato  could  hardly  write,  even  upon 
the  driest  matters  of  government,  with  the  aridity  of  a  common 
clerk.  Some  little  lurking  well-head  of  character  or  circum- 
stance, interesting  to  readers  of  a  later  age,  would  probably  break 
through  the  barren  ground.  Perhaps  the  letters  went  counter  to 
some  of  the  good  Jesuit's  theology. 

Boiardo's  prose  translations  from  the  authors  of  antiquity  are 
so  scarce,  that  Mr.  Panizzi  himself,  a  learned  and  miscellaneous 
reader,  says  he  never  saw  them.*  I  am  willing  to  get  the  only 
advantage  in  my  power  over  an  Italian  critic,  by  saying  that  I 
have  had  some  of  them  in  my  hands, — brought  there  by  the  pleas- 
ant chances  of  the  bookstalls  ;  but  I  can  give  no  account  of  them. 
A  modern  critic,  quoted  by  this  gentleman  (Gamba,  Testi  di  Lin- 
gua), calls  the  version  of  Apuleius  "rude  and  curious;"  but 
adds,  that  it  contains  "  expressions  full  of  liveliness  and  propri- 
ety." By  "rude"  is  probably  meant  obsolete,  and  compara- 
tively  unlearned.     Correctness   of  interpretation    and    classical 


*  Crescimbeni  himself  had  not  seen  the  translation  from  Apuleius,  nor,  ap- 
parently, several  others. — Commentari.  t^*c.  vol.  ii.  part  ii.  lib.  vii.  sect.  xi. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  230 

nicety  of  style  (as  Mr.  Panizzi  observes)  were  tlic  growths  of  a 
later  age. 

Nothing  is  told  us  by  his  biographers  of  tlie  person  of  Boiardo : 
and  it  is  not  safe  to  determine  a  man's  phijsiq^uc  from  his  writings, 
unless  perliaps  with  respect  to  the  greater  or  less  amount  of  his 
animal  spirits  ;  for  the  able-bodied  may  Write  effeminately,  and 
the  feeblest  supply  the  defect  of  corporal  stamina  witli  spiritual. 
Portraits,  liowever,  seem  to  be  extant.  IMazzuchelli  discovered 
that  a  medal  had  been  struck  in  the  poet's  honour ;  and  in  the 
castle  of  Scandiano  (though  "  the  halls  where  knights  and  ladies 
listened  to  the  adventures  of  the  Paladin  are  now  turned  into 
granaries,"  and  Orlando  himself  has  nearly  disappeared  from  the 
outside,  wliere  he  was  painted  in  huge  dimensions  as  if  "  en- 
trusted with  the  wardenship")  there  was  a  likeness  of  Boiardo 
executed  by  Niccolo  dell'  Abate,  together  with  tlie  principal 
events  of  the  Orhindo  Innamorato  and  the  J^neid.  But  part  of 
these  paintings  (Mr.  Panizzi  tells  us)  were  destroyed,  and  part 
removed  from  the  castle  to  Modena  "  to  save  them  from  certain 
loss;'"'  and  he  docs  not  add  whether  the  portrait  was  among  the 
latter. 

From  anecdotes,  however,  and  from  the  poet's  writings,  we 
gather  the  nature  of  the  man ;  and  this  appears  to  have  been 
very  amiable.  There  is  an  aristocratic  tone  in  his  poem,  when 
speaking  of  the  sort  of  people  of  whom  the  mass  of  soldiers  is 
wont  to  consist ;  and  Foscolo  says,  that  the  Count  of  Scandiano 
v/rites  like  a  feudal  lord.  But  common  soldiers  are  not  apt  to  be 
the  elite  of  mankind  ;  neither  do  we  know  with  how  good-natured 
a  smile  the  mention  of  them  may  have  been  accompanied.  Peo- 
ple often  give  a  tone  to  what  they  read,  more  belonging  to  their 
own  minds  than  the  author's.  All  the  accounts  left  us  of  Boiar- 
do,  hostile  as  well  as  friendly,  prove  him  to  have  been  an  indul- 
gent and  popular  man.  According  to  one,  he  was  fond  of  making 
personal  inquiries  among  its  inhabitants  into  the  history  of  his  na- 
tive place  ;  and  he  requited  them  so  generously  for  their  infor- 
mation, that  it  was  customary  with  them  to  say,  when  they  wished 
good  fortune  to  one  another,  "  Heaven  send  Boiardo  to  your 
house  !"  There  is  ^aid  to  have  been  a  tradition  at  Scandiano, 
that  having  tried   in  vain  one  day,  as  he  was   riding  out,  to  dis- 


240  BOIARDO. 


cover  a  name  for  one  of  his  heroes,  expressive  of  his  lofty  char- 
acter, and  the  word  Rodamonie  coming  into  his  head,  he  galloped 
back  with  a  pleasant  ostentation  to  his  castle,  crying  it  out  aloud, 
and  ordering  the  bells  of  the  place  to  be  rung  in  its  honour  ;  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  good  people,  who  took  "  Rodamonte"  for 
some  newly-discovered  saint.  His  friend  Paganelli  of  Modena, 
who  wrote  a  Latin  poem  on  the  Empire  of  Cupid,  extolled  the 
Governor  of  Reggio  for  ranking  among  the  deity's  most  generous 
vassals, — one  who,  in  spite  of  his  office  of  magistrate,  looked  with 
an  indulgent  eye  on  errors  to  which  himself  was  liable,  and  who 
was  accustomed  to  prefer  the  study  of  love-verses  to  that  of  the 
law.  The  learned  lawyer,  his  countryman  Panciroli,  probably 
in  resentment,  as  Panizzi  says,  of  this  preference,  accused  him  of 
an  excess  of  benignity,  and  of  being  fitter  for  writing  poems  than 
punishing  ill  deeds  ;  and  in  truth,  as  the  same  critic  observes, 
•''  he  must  have  been  considered  crazy  by  the  whole  tribe  of  law- 
yers of  that  age,"  if  it  be  true  that  he  anticipated  the  opinion  of 
Beccaria,  in  thinking  that  no  crime  ought  to  be  punished  with  death. 
The  great  work  of  this  interesting  and  accomplished  person, 
the  Orlando  Innamorato,  is  an  epic  romance,  founded  on  the  love 
of  the  great  Paladin  for  the  peerless  beauty  Angelica,  whose  name 
has  enamoured  the  ears  of  posterity.  The  poem  introduces  us  to 
the  pleasantest  paths  in  that  track  of  reading  in  which  Milton  has 
told  us  that  his  "  young  feet  delighted  to  wander."  Nor  did  he 
forsake  it  in  his  age. 

"  Such  forces  met  not,  nor  so  wide  a  camp, 
When  Agrican  with  all  his  northern  powers 
Besieged  Albracca,  as  romances  tell. 
The  city  of  Gallaphrone,  from  whence  to  win 
The  fairest  of  her  sex,  Angelica." — Paradise  Regained. 

The  Orlando  Innamorato  may  be  divided  into  three  principal 
I  portions  : — the  search  for  Angelica  by  Orlando  and  her  other 
I  lovers;  the  siege  of  her  father's  city  Albracca  by  the  Tartars; 
and  that  of  Paris  and  Charlemagne  by  the  Moors.  These,  ho\f- 
ever,  are  all  more  or  less  intermingled,  and  with  the  greatest 
art ;  and  there  are  numerous  episodes  of  a  like  intertexture. 
The  fairies  and  fairy-gardens  of  British  romance,  and  the  fabu- 
lous glories  of  the  house  of  Este,  now  proclaimed   for  the   first 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  241 

time,  were  added  by  the  author  to  the  encliantments  of  Pulci,  to- 
gether with  a  pervading  elegance  ;  and  had  tlie  poem  been  com- 
pleted, we  were  to  have  heard  again  of  the  traitor  Gan  of  Ma- 
ganza,  for  the  purpose  of  exalting  the  imaginary  founder  of  that 
house,  Ruggero. 

This  resuscitation  of  the  Helen  of  antiquity,  under  a  more  scdu-. 
cing  form,  was  an  invention  of  Boiardo's  ;  so  was  the  subjection 
of  Charles's  hero  Orlando  to  the  passion  of  love  ;  so,  besides  the 
heroine  and  her  name,  was  that  of  other  interesting  characters 
with  beautiful  names,  which  afterwards  figured  in  Ariosto.  This 
inventive  faculty  is  indeed  so  conspicuous  in  every  part  of  the 
work,  on  small  as  well  as  great  occasions,  in  fairy-adventures 
and  those  of  flesh  and  blood,  that  although  the  author  appears  to 
have  had  both  his  loves  and  his  fairies  suggested  to  him  by  our 
romances  of  Arthur  and  the  Round  Table,  it  constitutes,  next  to 
the  pervading  elegance  above  mentioned,  his  chief  claim  to  our 
admiration.  Another  of  his  merits  is  a  certain  tender  gallantry, 
or  rather  an  honest  admixture  of  animal  passion  with  spiritual, 
also  the  precursor  of  the  like  ingenuous  emotions  in  Ariosto ;  and 
he  furthermore  set  his  follower  the  example,  not  only  of  good 
breeding,  but  of  a  constant  heroical  cheerfulness,  looking  with 
faith  on  nature.  Pulci  has  a  constant  cheerfulness,  but  not  with 
S3  much  grace  and  dignity.  Foscolo  has  remarked,  that  Boiar- 
do's characters  even  surpass  those  of  Ariosto  in  truth  and  variety, 
and  that  his  Angelica  more  engages  our  feelings  ;*  to  which  I 
will  venture  to  add,  that  if  his  style  is  less  strong  and  complete, 
it  never  gives  us  a  sense  of  elaboration.  I  should  take  Boiardo  to 
have  been  the  healthier  man,  though  of  a  less  determined  will  than 
Ariosto,  and  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  less  robust.  You  find  in  Bo- 
iardo almost  all  which  Ariosto  perfected, — chivalry,  battles,  com- 
bats, loves  and  graces,  passions,  enchantments,  classical  and  ro- 
mantic fable,  eulogy,  satire,  mirth,  pathos,  philosophy.  It  is  like 
the  first  sketch  of  a  great  picture,  not  the  worse  in  some  respects 
for  being  a  sketch ;  free  and  light,  though  not  so  grandly  colour- 
ed. It  is  the  morning  before  the  sun  is  up,  and  when  the  dew  is 
on  the  grass.     Take  the  stories  which  are  translated  in  the  pres- 

*  Article  on  the  Narrative  and  Romantic  Poems  of  the  Italians,  in  the  Quar- 
terly Rerieic,  No.  G2,  p.  527. 


f\ 


242  BOIARDO. 


ent  volume,  and  you  might  fancy  them  all  written  by  Ariosto, 
with  a  difference  ;  the  Death  of  Agrican  perhaps  with  minuter 
touches  of  nature,  but  certainly  not  with  greater  simplicity  and 
earnestness.  In  the  Saracen  Friends  there  is  just  Ariosto's  bal- 
ance of  passion  and  levity  ;  and  in  the  story  which  I  have  enti- 
tled Seeing  and  Believing,  his  exhibition  of  triumphant  cunning. 
During  the  lives  of  Pulci  and  Boiardo,  the  fierce  passions  and 
severe  ethics  of  Dante  had  been  gradually  giving  way  to  a  gent- 
ler and  laxer  state  of  opinion  before  the  progress  of  luxury  ;  and 
though  Boiardo's  enamoured  Paladin  retains  a  kind  of  virtue  not 
common  in  any  age  to  the  heroes  of  warfare,  the  lord  of  Scan- 
diano,  who  appears  to  have  recited  his  poem,  sometimes  to  his  vas- 
sals and  sometimes  to  the  ducal  circle  at  court,  intimates  a  smi- 
ling suspicion  that  such  a  virtue  would  be  considered  a  little  rude 
and  obsolete  by  his  hearers.  Pulci's  wandering  gallant,  Uliviero, 
who  in  Dante's  time  would  have  been  a  scandalous  profligate, 
had  become  the  prototype  of  the  court-lover  in  Boiardo's.  The 
poet,  however,  in  his  most  favourite  cliaracters,  retained  and  rec- 
ommended a  truer  sentiment,  as  in  the  instance  of  the  loves  of 
Brandimart  and  Fiordelisa  ;  and  there  is  a  graceful  cheerfulness 
in  some  of  his  least  sentimental  ones,  which  redeems  them  from 
grossness.  I  know  not  a  more  charming  fancy  in  the  whole  lov- 
ing circle  of  fairy-land,  than  the  female's  shaking  her  long  tress- 
es round  Mandricardo,  in  order  to  furnish  him  with  a  mantle, 
when  he  issues  out  of  the  enchanted  fountain.* 

*  "E'  suoi  capelli  a  se  sciolse  di  testa, 
Che  n'  avea  molti  la  dama  gioconda; 
Ed,  abbracciato  il  cavalier  con  festa, 
Tutto  il  coperse  de  la  treccia  bionda : 
Cosi,  nascosi  entrambi  di  tal  vesta, 
Uscir'  di  quella  fonte  e  la  bell'  onda." 

Her  locks  she  loosened  from  her  lovely  head, 
For  many  and  long  had  that  same  lady  fair ; 
And  clasping  him  in  mirth  as  round  they  spread, 
Covered  the  knight  with  the  sweet  shaken  hair : 
And  so,  thus  both  to^rether  (Tormented, 
They  issued  from  the  fount  to  the  fresh  air. 

Readers  of  the  Faerie  Queeiie  will  here  see  where  Spenser  has  been,  among  his 
other  visits  to  the  Bowers  of  Bliss. 


I 


HIS    LIFE   AND    GENIUS.  ^13 


But  Boiardo's  poein  was  unfinislied  :  there  are  many  prosaical 
passages  in  it,  many  lame  and  liarsli  lines,  incorrect  and  even 
ungranuiiatical  expressions,  trivial  images,  and,  above  all,  many 
Lombard  provincialisms,  which  are  not  in  their  nature  of  a  "sig- 
nificant or  graceful"  sort,*  and  which  shocked  the  fastidious  Flor- 
entines, the  arbiters  of  Italian  taste.  It  was  to  avoid  these  in  his 
own  poetry,  that  Boiardo's  countryman  Ariosto  carefully  studied 
the  Tuscan  dialect,  if  not  visited  Florence  itself;  and  the  conse- 
quence was,  that  his  greater  genius  so  obscured  the  popularity  of 
his  predecessor,  that  a  remarkable  process,  unique  in  the  history  of 
letters,  appears  to  have  been  thought  necessary  to  restore  its  perusal. 
The  facetious  Berni,  a  Tuscan  wit  full  of  genius,  without  omitting 
any  particulars  of  consequence,  or  adding  a  single  story  except  of 
himself,  re-cast  the  whole  poem  of  Boiardo,  altering  the  diction 
of  almost  every  stanza,  and  supplying  introductions  to  the  cantos 
after  the  manner  of  Ariosto  ;  and  the  Florentine  idiom  and  unfail- 
ing spirit  of  this  re-fashioner's  verse  (though,  what  is  very  curi- 
ous, not  till  after  a  long  ciiance  of  its  being  overlooked  itself,  and 
a  posthumous  editorship  which  has  left  doubts  on  the  authority  of 
the  text)  gradually  effaced  almost  the  very  mention  of  the  man's 
name  who  had  supplied  him  with  the  whole  staple  commodity  of 
his  book,  with  all  the  heart  of  its  interest,  and  with  far  the  great- 
er part  of  the  actual  words.  The  first  edition  of  Berni  was  pro- 
hibited in  consequence  of  its  containing  a  severe  attack  on  the 
clergy  ;  but  even  the  prohibition  did  not  help  to  make  it  popular. 
The  reader  may  imagine  a^ similar  occurrence  in  England,  by 
supposing  that  Dryden  had  re-written  the  whole  of  Chaucer,  and 
that  his  reconstruction  had  in  the  course  of  time  as  much  surpass- 
ed the  original  in  popularity,  as  his  version  of  the  Flower  and  the 
Lenf  did,  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  present  century. 

I  do  not  mean  to  compare  Chaucer  with  Boiardo,  or  Dryden 
with  Berni.  Fine  poet  as  I  think  Boiardo,  I  hold  Chaucer  to  be 
a  far  finer  ;  and  spirited,  and  in  some  respects  admirable,  as  are 
Dryden's  versions  of  Chaucer,  they  do  not  equal  that  of  Boiardo 
by  the  Tuscan.  Dryden  did  not  apprehend  the  sentiment  of 
Chaucer  in  any  such  degree  as  Berni  did  that  of  his  original. 

*  Foscolo,  ut  sup.  p.  528. 


244  BOIARDO. 


Indeed,  Mr.  Panizzi  himself,  to  whom  the  world  is  indebted  both 
for  the  only  good  edition  of  Boiardo  and  for  the  knowledge  of  the 
most  curious  facts  respecting  Berni's  rifacimento,  declares  himself 
unable  to  pronounce  which  of  the  two  poems  is  the  better  one,  the 
original  Boiardo,  or  the  re-modelled.  It  would  therefore  not  very- 
well  become  a  foreigner  to  give  a  verdict,  even  if  he  were  able  ; 
and  I  confess,  after  no  little  consideration  (and  apart,  of  course, 
from  questions  of  dialect,  which  I  cannot  pretend  to  look  into),  I 
feel  myself  almost  entirely  at  a  loss  to  conjecture  on  which  side 
the  superiority  lies,  except  in  point  of  invention  and  a  certain 
early  simplicity.  The  advantage  in  those  two  respects  unques- 
tionably belongs  to  Boiardo ;  and  a  great  one  it  is,  and  may  not 
unreasonably  be  supposed  to  settle  the  rest  of  the  question  in  his 
favour ;  and  yet  Berni's  fancy,  during  a  more  sophisticate  period 
of  Italian  manners,  exhibited  itself  so  abundantly  in  his  own  witty 
poems,  his  pen  at  all  times  has  such  a  charming  facility,  and  he 
proved  himself,  in  his  version  of  Boiardo,  to  have  so  strong  a  sym- 
pathy with  the  earnestness  and  sentiment  of  his  original  in  his 
gravest  moments,  that  I  cannot  help  thinking  the  two  men  would 
have  been  each  what  the  other  was  in  their  respective  times  ; — 
the  Lombard  the  comparative  idler,  given  more  to  witty  than,  se- 
rious invention,  under  a  corrupt  Roman  court ;  and  the  Tuscan 
the  originator  of  romantic  fictions,  in  a  court  more  suited  to  him 
than  the  one  he  avowedly  despised.  I  look  upon  them  as  two 
men  singularly  well  matched.  The  nature  of  the  present  work 
does  not  require,  and  the  limits  to  which  it  is  confined  do  not  per- 
mit, me  to  indulge  myself  in  a  comparison  between  them  corrob- 
orated by  proofs  ;  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  notice  the  connexion  : 
and  therefore,  begging  the  reader's  pardon  for  the  sorry  substitute 
of  affirmative  for  demonstrative  criticism,  I  may  be  allowed  to 
say,  that  if  Boiardo  has  the  praise  of  invention  to  himself,  Berni 
thoroughly  appreciated  and  even  enriched  it ;  that  if  Boiardo  has 
sometimes  a  more  thoroughly  charming  simplicity,  Berni  still  ap- 
preciates it  so  well,  that  the  difference  of  their  times  is  sufficient 
to  restore  the  claim  of  equality  of  feeling  ;  and  finally,  that  if 
Berni  strengthens  and  adorns  the  interest  of  the  composition  with 
more  felicitous  expressions,  and  with  a  variety  of  lively  and  beau- 
tiful trains  of  thought,  you  feel  that  Boiardo  was  quite  capable 


HIS    LIFE   AND   Gi:ML\S  'ilS 

of  them  all,  and  might  have  done  precisely  the  same  had  he  lived 
in  Berni's  age.  in  the  greater  part  of  the  poem  the  original  is 
altered  in  notliing  except  diction,  and  often  (so  at  least  it  seems  to 
me)  for  no  other  reason  than  the  requirements  of  tiie  Tuscan  man- 
ner. And  this  is  the  case  with  most  of  the  noblest,  and  even  the 
liveliest  j)assages.  My  first  acquaintance,  for  example,  with  the 
Orlando  Inuamoraio  was  through  the  medium  of  Bcrni ;  and  on 
turning  to  those  stories  in  his  version,  which  I  have  translated 
from  his  original  for  the  present  volume,  I  found  that  every  pas- 
sage but  one,  to  which  I  had  given  a  mark  of  admiration,  was  the 
property  of  the  old  poet.  That  single  one,  however,  was  in  the 
exquisitest  taste,  full  of  as  deep  a  feeling  as  any  thing  in  its  com- 
pany (I  have  noticed  it  in  the  translated  passage).  And  then,  in 
the  celebrated  introductions  to  his  cantos,  and  the  additions  to  Bo- 
iardo's  passages  of  description  and  character  (those  about  Roda- 
monte,  for  example,  so  admired  by  Foscolo),  if  Berni  occasionally 
shews  a  comparative  want  of  faith  which  you  regret,  he  does  it 
with  a  regret  on  his  own  part,  visible  through  all  his  jesting. 
Lastly,  the  sino;ular  and  indio;nant  strength  of  his  execution  often 
makes  up  for  the  trustingness  that  he  was  sorry  to  miss.  If  I 
were  asked,  in  short,  which  of  the  two  poems  I  should  prefer 
keeping,  were  I  compelled  to  choose,  I  should  first  complain  of 
being  forced  upon  so  hard  an  alternative,  and  then,  with  many  a 
look  after  Berni,  retain  Boiardo.  Tlie  invention  is  his  ;  the  first 
earnest  impulse  ;  the  unmisgiving  joy  ;  the  primitive  morning 
breath,  when  the  town-smoke  has  not  polluted  the  fields,  and  the 
birds  are  singing  their  '•  wood-notes  wild."  Besides,  after  all, 
one  cannot  be  sure  that  Berni  could  have  invented  as  Boiardo  did. 
If  he  could,  he  would  probably  have  written  some  fine  serious 
poem  of  his  own.  And  Panizzi  has  observed,  with  striking  and 
conclusive  truth,  that  "  without  Berni  the  Orlando  Innamoraio 
will  be  read  and  enjoyed  ;  without  Boiardo  not  even  the  name  of 
the  poem  remains." 

Nevertheless  this  conclusion  need  not  deprive  us  of  either  work. 
Berni  raised  a  fine  polished  edifice,  copied  and  enlarged  after  that 
of  Boiardo  ; — on  the  other  hand,  the  old  house,  thank  Heaven,  re- 
mains ;  and  our  best  way  of  settling  the  question  between  the  two 
is,  to  be  glad  that  we  have  got  both.     Let  the  reader  who  is  rich 


246  BOIxiRDO. 


in  such  possessions  look  upon  Berni's  as  one  of  his  town  mansions, 
erected  in  the  park-like  neighbourhood  of  some  metropolis  ;  and 
Boiardo's  as  the  ancient  country  original  of  it,  embosomed  in  the 
woods  afar  off,  and  beautiful  as  the  Enchanted  Castle  of  Claude — 

"  Lone  sitting  by  the  shores  of  old  romance." 


A  late  amiable  man  of  wit,  Mr.  Stewart  Rose,  has  given  a  prose  abstract  of 
Berni's  Orlando  Innamorato,  with  occasional  versification;  but  it  is  hardly  more 
than  a  dry  outline,  and  was,  indeed,  intended  only  as  an  introduction  to  his 
Version  of  the  Furioso.  A  good  idea,  however,  of  one  of  the  phases  of  Berni's 
humour  may  be  obtained  from  the  same  gentleman's  abridgment  of  the  Animali 
Parlanti  of  Casti,  in  which  he  has  introduced  a  translation  of  the  Tuscan's 
description  of  himself  and  of  his  way  of  life,  out  of  his  additions  to  Boiardo's 
poem.  The  verses  in  the  prohibited  edition  of  Berni's  Orlando,  in  w^hich  he 
denounced  the  corruptions  of  the  clergy,  have  been  published,  for  the  first  time 
in  this  country,  in  the  notes  to  the  twentieth  canto  of  Mr.  Panizzi's  Boiardo. 
They  have  all  his  peculiar  wit,  together  with  a  Ladheran  earnestness ;  and  shew 
him,  as  that  critic  observes,  to  have  been  "  Protestant  at  his  heart." 

Since  writing  this  note  I  have  called  to  mind  that  a  translation  of  Berni's 
axjcount  of  hhnself  is  to  be  found  in  Mr.  Rose's  prose  abstract  of  the  Jnnamo' 
rato. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ANGELICA. 


Argument. 

Angelica,  daughter  of  Galafron,  king  of  Cathay,  the  most  beautiful  of  woman- 
kind, and  a  possessor  of  the  art  of  magic,  comes,  with  her  brother  ArgaUa,  to 
the  court  of  Charlemagne  under  false  pretences,  in  order  to  carry  away  his 
knights  to  the  country  of  her  father.  Her  immediate  purpose  is  defeated,  and  her 
brother  slain ;  but  all  the  knights,  Orlando  in  particular,  fall  in  love  with  her ; 
and  she  herself,  in  consequence  of  drinking  at  an  enchanted  fountain,  becomes 
m  love  with  Rinaldo.  On  the  other  hand,  Rinaldo,  from  drinking  a  neighbour- 
ing fountain  of  a  reverse  quality,  finds  his  own  love  converted  to  loathincr. 
Various  adventures  arise  out  of  these  circumstances ;  and  the  fountains  are 
again  drunk,  wdth  a  mutual  reversal  of  their  eflects. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ANGELICA. 


It  was  the  month  of  May  and  the  feast  of  Pentecost,  and  Char- 
lemagne had  ordained  a  great  jousting,  which  brought  into  Paris 
an  infinite  number  of  people,  baptised  and  infidel  ;  for  there  was 
truce  proclaimed,  in  order  that  every  knight  might  come.  There 
was  King  Grandonio  from  Spain,  with  his  serpent's  face ;  and 
Ferragus,  with  his  eyes  like  an  eagle  ;  and  Balugante,  the  em- 
peror's kinsman  ;  and  Orlando,  and  Rinaldo,  and  Duke  Namo  ; 
and  Astolfo  of  England,  the  handsomest  of  mankind  ;  and  the  en- 
chanter Malagigi ;  and  Isoliero  and  Salamone  ;  and  the  traitor 
Gan,  with  his  scoundrel  followers ;  and,  in  short,  the  whole  flow- 
er of  the  chivalry  of  the  age,  the  greatest  in  the  world.  The  ta- 
bles at  which  they  feasted  were  on  three  sides  of  the  hall,  with 
the  emperor's  canopy  midway  at  the  top;  and  at  that  first  table 
sat  crowned  heads  ;  and  down  the  table  on  the  right  sat  dukes 
and  marquises  ;  and  down  the  table  on  the  left,  counts  and  cava- 
liers. But  the  Saracen  nobles,  after  their  doggish  fashion,  looked 
neither  for  chair  nor  bench,  but  preferred  a  carpet  on  the  floor, 
which  was  accordingly  spread  for  them  in  the  midst. 

High  sat  Charlemagne  at  the  head  of  his  vassals  and  his  Pala- 
dins, rejoicing  in  the  thought  of  all  the  great  men  of  which  they 
consisted,  and  holding  the  infiJels  cheap  as  the  sands  which  are 
scattered  by  the  tempest.  To  each  of  his  lords,  as  they  drank,  he 
sent  round,  by  his  pages,  gifts  of  enamelled  cups  of  exquisite 
workmanship  ;  and  to  every  body  some  mark  of  his  princely  dis- 
tinction ;  and  so  they  were  all  sitting  and  hearing  music,  and 
feasting  off' dishes  of  gold,  and  talking  of  lovely  things  with  low 
voices,*  when  suddenly  there  came  into  the   hall  four  enormous 

*  "  Con  parlar  basso  e  bei  ragionamenti." 


250  THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 


giants,  in  the  midst  of  whom  was  a  lady,  and  behind  the  lady 
there  followed  a  cavalier.  She  was  a  very  lily  of  the  field,  and 
a  rose  of  the  garden,  and  a  morning-star  ;  in  short,  so  beautiful 
that  the  like  had  never  been  seen.  There  was  Galerana  in  the 
hall ;  there  was  Alda,  the  wife  of  Orlando  ;  and  Clarice,  and 
Armellina  the  kind-hearted,  and  abundance  of  other  ladies,  all 
beautiful  till  she  made  her  appearance  ;  but  after  that  they  seem- 
ed  nothing.  Every  Christian  knight  turned  his  face  that  way  ; 
and  not  a  Pagan  remained  on  the  floor,  but  arose  and  got  as  near 
to  her  as  he  could ;  while  she,  with  a  cheerful  sweetness,  and  a 
smile  fit  to  enamour  a  heart  of  stone,  began  speaking  the  following 
words  : 

"  High-minded  lord,  the  renown  of  your  worthiness,  and  the- 
valour  of  these  your  knights,  which  echoes  from  sea  to  sea,  en- 
courages me  to  hope,  that  two  pilgrims  who  have  come  from  the 
ends  of  the  world  to  behold  you,  will  not  have  encountered  their 
fatigue  in  vain.  And  to  the  end  that  I  may  not  hold  your  atten- 
tion  too  long  with  speaking,  let  me  briefly  say,  that  this  knight 
here,  Uberto  of  the  Lion,  a  prince  renowned  also  for  his  achieve- 
ments, has  been  wrongfully  driven  from  out  his  dominions ;  and 
that  1,  who  was  driven  out  with  him,  am  his  sister,  whose  name 
is  Angelica.  Fame  has  told  us  of  the  jousting  this  day  appoint- 
ed, and  of  the  noble  press  of  knights  here  assembled,  and  how 
your  generous  natures  care  not  to  win  prizes  of  gold  or  jewels, 
or  gifts  of  cities,  but  only  a  wreath  of  roses  ;  and  so  the  prince 
my  brother  has  come  to  prove  his  own  valour,  and  to  say,  that  if 
any  or  all  of  your  guests,  whether  baptised  or  infidel,  choose  to 
meet  him  in  the  joust,  he  will  encounter  them  one  by  one,  in  the 
green  meadow  without  the  walls,  near  the  place  called  the  Horse- 
block of  Merlin,  by  the  Fountain  of  the  Pine.  And  his  condi- 
tions  are  these, — that  no  knight  who  chances  to  be  thrown  shall 
have  license  to  renew  the  combat  in  any  way  whatsoever,  but 
remain  a  submissive  prisoner  in  his  hands ;  he,  on  the  other 
hand,  if  himself  be  thrown,  agreeing  to  take  his  departure  out 
of  the  country  with  his  giants,  and  to  leave  his  sister,  for  prize, 
in  the  hands  of  the  conqueror." 

Kneeling  at  the  close  of  these  words,  the  lady  awaited  the  an- 
swer of  Charlemagne,  and  every  body  gazed  on  her  with  aston- 


THE  ADVENTURES   OP   ANGELICA.  "231 

ishmcnt.  Orlando  especially,  more  than  all  the  rest,  felt  irre- 
sistibly drawi^ towards  her,  so  that  his  iieart  trembled,  and  ho 
changed  countenance.  But  he  felt  ashamed  at  the  same  time  ; 
and  casting  his  eyes  down,  he  said  to  himself,  "  Ah,  mad  and  un- 
worthy Orlando  !  whither  is  thy  soul  being  hurried  ?  I  am 
drawn,  and  cannot  say  nay  to  what  draws  me.  I  reckoned  the 
whole  world  as  nothing,  and  now  I  am  conquered  by  a  girl.  I 
cannot  get  her  sweet  look  out  of  my  heart.  My  soul  seems  to 
die  within  me,  at  the  thought  of  being  without  her.  It  is  love 
that  has  seized  me,  and  I  feel  that  nothing  will  set  me  free ; — 
not  strength,  nor  courage,  nor  my  own  wisdom,  nor  that  of  any 
adviser.     I  see  the  better  part,  and  cleave  to  the  worse."* 

Thus  secretly  in  his  heart  did  the  frank  and  noble  Orlando  la- 
ment over  his  new  feelings ;  and  no  wonder ;  for  every  knight  in 
the  hall  was  enamoured  of  the  beautiful  stranger,  not  excepting 
even  old  white-headed  Duke  Namo.  Charlemagne  himself  did 
not  escape. 

All  stood  for  awhile  in  silence,  lost  in  the  delight  of  looking  at 
her.  The  fiery  youth  Ferragus  was  the  first  to  exhibit  symp- 
toms in  his  countenance  of  uncontrollable  passion.     He  refrained 

*  Video  meliora,  proboque,  (|*c.  Writers  were  now  beginning  to  pride  them- 
selves on  their  classical  reading.  The  present  occasion,  it  must  be  owned,  was  a 
very  good  one  for  introducing  the  passage  from  Horace.  The  previous  words 
have  an  affecting  ingenuousness ;  and,  indeed,  the  whole  stanza  is  beautiful : 

"lo  non  mi  posso  dal  cor  dipartire 

La  dolce  vista  del  viso  sereno, 
Perch'  io  mi  sento  senza  lei  morire, 

E  '1  spirto  a  poco  a  poco  venir  meno. 
Or  non  mi  vale  for/a,  nb  V  ardire 

Contra  d'  amor,  che  m'  ha  gii\  posto  il  freno; 
N6  mi  giova  sapcr,  ne  altrui  consiglio  : 
II  meglio  veggio,  ed  al  peggior  m'  appiglio." 

Alas  !  I  cannot,  though  I  shut  mine  eyes. 

Lose  the  sweet  look  of  that  delightful  face ; 
The  very  soul  within  me  droops  and  dies, 

To  think  that  I  may  fail  to  gain  her  grace. 
No  strong  limbs  now,  no  valour,  will  suffice 

To  burst  the  spell  that  roots  me  to  the  place : 
No,  nor  reflection,  nor  advice,  nor  force ; 
I  see  the  better  part,  and  clasp  the  worse. 


252  THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 


with  difficulty  from  going  up  to  the  giants,  and  tearing  her  out 
of  their  keeping.  Rinaldo  also  turned  as  red  as  fire ;  while  his 
cousin  Malagigi  the  enchanter,  who  had  discovered  that  the 
stranger  was  not  speaking  truth,  muttered  softly,  as  he  looked  at 
her,  "  Exquisite  false  creature  !  I  will  play  thee  such  a  trick 
for  this,  as  will  leave  thee  no  cause  to  boast  of  thy  visit." 

Charlemagne,  to  detain  her  as  long  as  possible  before  him, 
made  a  speech  in  answer,,  in  which  he  talked  and  looked,  and 
looked  and  talked,  till  there  seemed  no  end  of  it.  At  length, 
however,  the  challenge  was  accepted  in  all  its  forms ;  and  the 
lady  quitted  the  hall  with  her  brother  and  the  giants. 

She  had  not  yet  passed  the  gates,  when  Malagigi  the  enchanter 
consulted  his  books  ;  and  that  no  means  might  be  wanting  to 
complete  the  counteraction  of  what  he  suspected,  he  summoned 
to  his  aid  three  spirits  out  of  the  lower  regions.  But  how  serious 
his  look  turned,  how  his  very  soul  within  him  was  shaken,  when 
he  discovered  that  the  most  dreadful  disasters  hung  over  Charles 
and  his  court,  and  that  the  sister  of  the  pretended  Uberto  was 
daughter  of  King  Galafron  of  Cathay,  a  beauty  accomplished  in 
every  species  of  enchantment,  and  sent  there  by  her  father  on 
purpose  to  betray  them  all !  Her  brother's  name  was  not  Uberto, 
but  Argalia.  Galafron  had  given  him  a  horse  swifter  than  the 
wind,  an  enchanted  sword,  a  golden  lance,  also  enchanted,  which 
overthrew  all  whom  it  touched,*  and  a  ring  of  a  virtue  so  extra- 
ordinary, that  if  put  into  the  mouth,  it  rendered  the  person  in- 
visible, and  if  worn  on  the  finger,  nullified  every  enchantment. 
But  beyond  even  all  this,  he  gave  him  his  sister  for  a  companion  ; 
rightly  judging,  that  every  body  that  saw  her  would  fall  into  the 
proposal  of  the  joust ;  and  trusting  that,  at  the  close  of  it,  she 
would  bring  him  the  whole  court  of  France  into  Cathay,  prison- 
ers in  her  hands. 

*    A.pYvpij.ig  Myj^aiCTi  jxa^^^ov,  Kai  irixvTa  Kparficreis. 

"  Make  war  with  silver  spears,  and  you'll  beat  all." 

The  reader  mil  note  the  allegory  or  not,  as  he  pleases.  It  is  a  very  good  alle- 
gory ;  but  allegory,  by  the  due  process  of  enchantment,  becomes  matter  of  fact ; 
and  it  is  pleasant  to  take  it  as  such. 


THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  253 


Such,  Malagigi  discovered,  was  the  plot  of  the  accursed  inlidel 
hound,  Kinii  Guhifron.* 

Meantime  tlic  pretended  Uherto  had  returned  to  his  station  at 
tlie  Horseblock  of  Merlin.  He  had  had  a  beautiful  pavilion 
pitched  there  ;  and  under  this  pavilion  he  lay  down  awhile  to  re- 
fresh himself  with  sleep.  His  sister  Angelica  lay  down  also, 
but  in  the  open  air,  under  the  great  pine  by  the  fountain.  The 
four  giants  kept  watch  :  and  as  she  lay  thus  asleep,  with  her  fair 
head  on  the  grass,  she  appeared  like  an  angel  come  down  from 
heaven. 

By  this  time  Malagigi,  borne  by  one  of  his  demons,  had  ar- 
rived  in  the  same  place.  He  saw  the  beauty  asleep  by  the  flow- 
ery water,  and  the  four  giants  all  wide  awake  ;  and  he  said  with- 
in his  teeth, — "  Brute  scoundrels^  I  will  take  every  one  of  you 
into  my  net  without  a  blow." 

Malagigi  took  his  book,  and  cast  a  spell  out  of  it ;  and  in  an 
instant  the  whole  four  giants  were  buried  in  sleep.  Then,  draw- 
ing his  sword,  he  softly  approached  the  young  lady,  intending  to 
despatch  her  as  quickly:  but  seeing  her  look  so  lovely  as  she 
slept,  he  paused,  and  considered  within  himself,  and  resolved  to 
detain  her  in  the  same  state  by  enchantment,  so  long  as  it  should 
please  him.  Laying  down  the  naked  sword  in  the  grass,  he  again 
took  his  book,  and  read  and  read  on,  and  still  read  on,  and  fancied 
he  was  locking  up  her  senses  all  the  while  in  a  sleep  unwakeable. 
But  the  ring  of  which  I  have  spoken  was  on  her  finger.  She  had 
borrowed  it  of  her  brother ;  and  a  superior  power  rendered  all 
other  magic  of  no  avail.  A  touch  from  Malagigi  to  prove  the 
force  of  his  spell  awoke  her,  to  the  magician's  consternation, 
with  a  great  cry.  She  fled  into  the  arms  of  her  brother,  whom 
it  aroused;  and,  by  the  help  of  his  sister's  knowledge  of  enchant- 
ment, Arcalia  mastered  and  bound  the  magician.  The  book  was 
then  turned  against  him,  and  the  place  was  suddenly  filled  with 
a  crowd  of  his  own  demons,  every  one  of  them  crying  out  to 
Ano-elica,  '•  What  commandest  thou  ?" 

"  Take  this  man,"  said  Angelica,  "  and  bear  him  prisoner  to 
the  great  city  between  Tartary  and  India,  where  my  father  Gal- 

*  "  Rb  Galafron,  il  maledetto  cane." 
PART  IL  4 


2M         THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ANGELICA. 


afron  is  lord.  Present  him  to  him  in  my  name,  and  say  it  was 
I  that  took  him ;  and  add,  that  having  so  taken  the  master  of  the 
book,  I  care  not  for  all  the  other  lords  of  the  court  of  Charle- 


magne." 


At  the  end  of  these  words,  and  at  one  and  the  same  instant, 
the  magician  was  conveyed  to  the  feet  of  Galafron  in  Cathay,  and 
locked  up  in  a  rock  under  the  sea. 

In  due  time  the  enamoured  knights,  according  to  agreement, 
came  to  the  spot  for  the  purpose  of  jousting  with  the  supposed 
Uberto,  each  anxious  to  have  the  first  encounter,  particularly  Or- 
lando, in  order  that  he  might  not  see  the  beauty  carried  off  by 
another.  But  they  were  obliged  to  draw  lots ;  and  thirty  other 
names  appeared  before  his,  the  first  of  which  was  that  of  Astolfo 
the  Englishman. 

Now  Astolfo  was  son  of  the  king  of  England ;  and  as  I 
said  before,  he  was  the  handsomest  man  in  the  world.  He  was 
also  very  rich  and  well  bred,  and  loved  to  dress  well,  and  was 
as  brave  as  he  was  handsome ;  but  his  success  was  not  always 
equal  to  his  bravery.  He  had  a  trick  of  being  thrown  from  his 
horse,  a  failing  which  he  was  accustomed  to  attribute  to  accident ; 
and  then  he  would  mount  again,  and  be  again  thrown  from  the 
saddle,  in  the  boldest  manner  conceivable. 

This  gallant  prince  was  habited,  on  the  present  occasion,  in 
arms  worth  a  whole  treasury.  His  shield  had  a  border  of  large 
pearls  ;  his  mail  was  of  gold  ;  on  his  helmet  was  a  ruby  as  big 
as  a  chestnut ;  and  his  horse  was  covered  with  a  cloth  all  over 
golden  leopards.*  He  issued  to  the  combat,  looking  at  nobody 
and  fearing  nothing ;  and  on  his  sounding  the  horn  to  battle,  Ar- 
galia  came  forth  to  meet  him.  After  courteous  salutations,  the 
two  combatants  rushed  together ;  but  the  moment  the  English- 
man was  touched  with  the  golden  lance,  his  legs  flew  over  his 
head. 

"  Cursed  fortune  !'*  cried  he,  as  he  lay  on  the  grass ;  "  this  is 
out  of  all  calculation.  But  it  was  entirely  owing  to  the  saddle. 
You  can't  but  acknowledge,  that  if  I  had  kept  my  seat,  the  beau- 

*  The  lions  in  the  shield  of  England  were  leopards  in  the  "olden  time,"  and 
it  is  understood,  I  believe,  ought  still  to  be  so, — as  Napoleon,  with  an  invidious 
pedantry,  once  permitted  himself  to  be  angry  enough  to  inform  us. 


THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  255 

tiful  lady  would  have  been  mine.     But  thus  it  is  when   Fortune 
chooses  to  befriend  intidels  !"* 

The  four  giants,  who  had  by  this  time  been  disenchanted  out 
of  their  sleep  by  Angelica,  took  up  the  English  prince,  and  put 
him  in  the  pavilion.  But  when  he  was  stripped  of  his  armour, 
he  looked  so  handsome,  that  the  lovely  stranger  secretly  took 
pity  on  him,  and  bade  them  shew  him  all  the  courtesies  that  cap- 
tivity allowed.  He  was  permitted  to  walk  outside  by  the  foun- 
tain ;  and  Angelica,  from  a  dark  corner,  looked  at  him  with  ad- 
miration, as  he  walked  up  and  down  in  the  moonlight. f 

The  violent  Ferragus  had  the  next  chance  in  the  encounter, 
and  was  thrown  no  less  speedily  than  Astolfo  ;  but  he  did  not  so 
easily  put  up  with  the  mischance.  Crying  out,  "  What  are  the 
emperor's  engagements  to  me  V  he  rushed  with  his  sword  against 
Argalia,  who,  being  forced  to  defend  himself  unexpectedly,  dis- 
mounted and  set  aside  his  lance,  and  got  so  much  the  worse  of 
the  fight,  that  he  listened  to  proposals  of  marriage  from  Ferragus 
to  his  sister.  The  beauty,  however,  not  feeling  an  inclination  to 
match  with  so  rough  and  savage-looking  a  person,  was  so  dis- 

*  The  character  of  Astolfo,  the  germ  of  wJiich  is  in  our  own  ancient  British 
romances,  appears  to  have  been  completed  by  the  lively  invention  of  Boiardo, 
and  is  a  curious  epitome  of  almost  all  which  has  been  discerned  in  tlie  travelled 
Englishmen  by  the  envy  of  poorer  and  the  wit  of  livelier  foreigners.  He  has 
the  handsomeness  and  ostentation  of  a  Buckingham,  the  wealth  of  a  Beckford, 
the  generosity  of  a  Carlisle,  the  invincible  pretensions  of  a  Crichton,  the  self- 
commitals  and  bravery  of  a  Digby,  the  lucklessness  of  a  Stuart,  and  the  non- 
chalance -under  diiriculties"  of  •'  Milord- Wkat-lheit^  in  Voltaire's  Princess  of 
Babylon,  where  the  noble  traveller  is  discovered  philosophically  reading  the 
newspaper  in  his  carriage  after  it  was  overturned.  English  beauty,  ever  since 
the  days  of  Pope  Gregory,  with  his  pun  about  Angles  and  Angels,  has  been 
greatly  admired  in  the  south  of  Europe — not  a  little,  perhaps,  on  account  of  the 
general  fairness  of  its  complexion.  I  once  heard  a  fair-faced  English  gentleman, 
who  would  have  been  thought  rather  eiTeminate-looking  at  home,  called  an 
"  Angel"  by  a  lady  in  Genoa. 

t  "  Stava  disciolto,  senza  guardia  alcuna, 
Ed  intorno  a  la  fonte  sollazzava ; 
Angelica  nel  lume  de  la  luna, 
Quanto  potea  nascosa,  lo  mirava." 

There  is  somethin£  wonderfully  soft  and  lunar  in  the  liquid  monotony  of  the 
third  line. 


•256  THE  ADVENTURES   OF  ANGELICA. 

mayed  at  the  offer,  that,  hastily  bidding  her  brother  meet  her 
in  the  forest  of  Arden,  she  vanished  from  tlie  sight  of  both, 
by  means  of  the  enchanted  ring.  Argalia,  seeing  this,  took  to 
his  horse  of  swiftness,  and  dashed  away  in  the  same  direction ; 
Ferragus,  in  distraction,  pursued  Argalia ;  and  Astolfo,  thus  left 
to  himself,  took  possession  of  the  golden  lance,  and  again  issued 
forth — not,  indeed,  with  quite  his  usual  confidence  of  the  result, 
but  determined  to  run  all  risks,  in  any  thing  that  might  ensue,  for 
the  sake  of  the  emperor.  In  fine,  to  cut  this  part  of  the  history 
short,  Charlemagne,  finding  the  lady  and  her  brother  gone,  or- 
dered the  joust  to  be  restored  to  its  first  intention  ;  and  Astolfo, 
who  was  as  ignorant  as  the  others  of  the  treasure  he  possessed  in 
the  enchanted  lance,  unhorsed  all  comers  against  him  like  so 
many  children,  equally  to  their  astonishment  and  his  own. 

The  Paladin  Rinaldo  now  learnt  the  issue  of  the  fight  between 
Ferragus  and  the  stranger,  and  galloped  in  a  loving  agony  of 
pursuit  after  the  fair  fugitive.  Orlando  learnt  the  disappearance 
of  Rinaldo,  and,  distracted  with  jealousy,  pushed  forth  in  like 
manner  ;  and  at  length  all  three  are  in  the  forest  of  Arden, 
hunting  about  for  her  who  is  invisible. 

Now  in  this  forest  were  two  enchanted  waters,  the  one  a  run- 
ning stream,  and  the  other  a  built  fountain  ;  the  first  caused 
every  body  who  tasted  it  to  fall  in  love,  and  the  other  (so  to 
speak)  to  fall  out  of  love ;  say,  rather,  to  feel  the  love  turned 
into  hate.  To  the  latter  of  these  two  waters  Rinaldo  happened 
to  come ;  and  being  flushed  with  heat  and  anxiety,  he  dismounted 
from  his  horse,  and  quenched,  in  one  cold  draught,  both  his  thirst 
and  his  passion.  So  far  from  loving  Angelica  as  before,  or  hold- 
ing her  beauty  of  any  account,  he  became  disgusted  with  its  pur- 
suit, nay,  hated  her  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart ;  and  so,  in  this 
new  state  of  mind,  and  with  feelings  of  lofty  contempt,  he  re- 
mounted and  rode  away,  and  happened  to  come  on  the  bank  of 
the  running  stream.  There,  enticed  by  the  beauty  of  the  place, 
which  was  all  sweet  meadow-cround  and  bowers  of  trees,  he 
again  quitted  his  saddle,  and,  throwing  himself  on  the  ground,"feU 
fast  asleep. 

Unfortunately  for  the  proud  beauty  Angelica,  or  rather  in  just 
punishment  for  her  contempt,  her  palfrey  conducted  her  to  this 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  257 

very  place.  Tho  water  tempted  her  to  drink,  and,  dismounting 
and  tying  the  animal  to  one  of  the  trees,  she  did  so,  and  then 
cast  her  eyes  on  tlie  sleeping  Rinaldo.  Love  instantly  seized  her, 
and  she  stood  rooted  to  tlie  spot. 

The  meadow  round  about  was  all  full  of  lilies  of  the  valley 
and  wild  roses.  Angelica,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  at  length 
plucked  a  quantity  of  these,  and  with  her  white  hand  she  dropped 
them  on  the  face  of  the  sleeper.  He  woke  up  ;  and  seeing  who 
it  was,  not  only  received  her  salutations  with  a  change  of  coun- 
tenance, but  remounting  his  horse,  galloped  away  through  the 
thickest  part  of  the  forest.  In  vain  the  beautiful  creature  fol- 
lowed and  called  after  him  ;  in  vain  asked  him  what  she  had 
done  to  be  so  despised,  and  entreated  him,  at  any  rate,  to  take  care 
how  he  went  so  fast.  Rinaldo  disappeared,  leaving  her  to  wring 
her  hands  in  despair ;  and  she  returned  in  tears  to  the  spot  on 
which  she  had  found  him  sleeping.  There,  in  her  turn,  she  her- 
self lay  down,  pressing  the  spot  of  earth  on  which  he  had  lain  ; 
and  so,  weeping  and  lamenting,  yet  blessing  every  flower  and  bit 
of  grass  that  he  had  touched,  fell  asleep  out  of  fatigue  and  sor- 
row. 

As  Angelica  thus  lay,  the  good  or  bad  fortune  of  Orlando  con- 
ducted him  to  the  same  place.  The  attitude  in  which  she  was 
sleeping  was  so  lovely  that  it  is  not  even  to  be  conceived,  much 
less  expressed.  The  very  grass  seemed  to  flower  on  all  sides  of 
her  for  joy  ;  and  the  stream,  as  it  murmured  along,  to  go  talking 
of  love.*  Orlando  stood  gazing  like  a  man  who  had  been  trans- 
ported to  another  sphere.  "  Am  I  on  earth,"  thought  he,  "  or 
am  I  in  paradise  ?  Surely  it  is  I  myself  that  am  sleeping,  and 
this  is  my  dream." 

But  his  drearn  was  proved  to  be  none,  in  a  manner  which  he 

*  "La  qual  dormiva  in  atto  tanto  adorno, 

Che  pcnsar  non  si  pu6,  non  ch'  io  lo  scriva : 
Parea  che  1'  erba  a  lei  fiorisse  intorno, 
E  d'  amor  ragionasse  quella  riva," 

Her  posture,  as  she  lay,  was  exquisite 
Above  all  words — nay,  thought  itself  above : 
The  grass  seemed  flowering  round  her  In  delight, 
And  the  soft  river  murmuring  of  love. 


258  THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 

little  desired.  Ferragus,  who  had  slain  Argalia,  came  up  raging 
with  jealousy,  and  a  combat  ensued  which  awoke  the  sleeper. 
Terrified  at  what  she  beheld,  she  rushed  to  her  palfrey ;  and 
while  the  fighters  were  occupied  with  one  another,  fled  away 
through  the  forest. 

Fast  fled  the  beauty  in  the  direction  taken  by  Rinaldo  ;  nor 
did  she  cease  travelling,  by  one  conveyance  or  another,  till  she 
reached  her  own  country,  whither  she  had  sent  Malagigi.  Him 
she  freed  from  his  prison,  on  condition  that  he  would  employ  his 
art  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  Rinaldo  to  a  palace  of  hers, 
which  she  possessed  in  an  island  ;  and  accordingly  Rinaldo  was 
inveigled  by  a  spirit  into  an  enchanted  barque,  which  he  found 
on  a  sea-shore,  and  which  conveyed  him,  without  any  visible 
pilot,  into  Joyous  Palace  (for  so  the  island  was  called). 

The  whole  island  was  a  garden,  fifteen  miles  in  extent.  It 
was  full  of  trees  a.nd  lawns  ;  and  on  the  western  side,  close  to 
the  sea,  was  the  palace,  built  of  a  marble  so  clear  and  polished, 
that  it  reflected  the  landscape  round  about.  Rinaldo,  not  know- 
ing what  to  think  of  his  strange  conveyance,  lost  no  time  in  leap- 
ing to  shore ;  upon  which  a  lady  made  her  appearance,  who  in- 
vited him  within.  The  house  was  a  most  beautiful  house,  full  of 
rooms  adorned  with  azure  and  gold,  and  with  noble  paintings ; 
and  within  as  well  as  without  it  were  the  loveliest  flowers,  the 
purest  fountains,  and  a  fragrance  fit  to  turn  sorrow  to  joy.  The 
lady  led  the  knight  into  an  apartment  painted  with  stories,  and 
opening  to  the  garden  through  pillars  of  crystal  with  golden  cap- 
itals. Here  he  found  a  bevy  of  ladies,  three  of  whom  were 
singing  in  concert,  while  another  played  on  some  foreign  instru- 
ment of  exquisite  accord,  and  the  rest  were  dancing  round  about 
them.  When  the  ladies  beheld  him  coming,  they  turned  the 
dance  into  a  circuit  round  about  himself;  and  then  one  of  them, 
in  the  sweetest  manner,  said,  "  Sir  knight,  the  tables  are  set,  and 
the  hour  for  the  banquet  is  come  :"  and  with  these  words  they 
all  drew  him,  still  dancing,  across  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  apart- 
ment, to  a  table  that  was  spread  with  cloth  of  gold  and  fine  linen, 
under  a  bower  of  damask  roses,  bv  the  side  of  a  fountain.* 

Four  ladies  were  already  seated  there,  who  rose  and  placed 
*  Supremely  elegant  all  this  appears  to  me. 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF  ANGELICA.  259 

Rinaldo  at  their  head,  in  a  chair  set  with  pearls.  And  truly  in- 
deed was  he  astonished.  A  repast  ensued,  consisting  of  viands 
the  most  delicate,  and  wines  as  fragrant  as  they  were  fine,  drinik 
out  of  jewelled  cups  ;  and  when  it  drew  towards  its  conclusion, 
harps  and  lutes  were  heard  in  the  distance,  and  one  of  the  ladies 
said  in  the  knight's  ear,  "  This  house,  and  all  that  you  see  in  it, 
are  yours.  For  you  alone  was  it  built,  and  the  builder  is  a 
queen ;  and  happy  indeed  must  you  think  yourself,  for  she  loves 
you,  and  she  is  the  greatest  beauty  in  the  world.  Her  name  is 
Angelica." 

The  moment  Rinaldo  heard  the  name  he  so  detested,  disgust 
and  wretchedness  fell  upon  his  heart,  notwithstanding  the  joys 
around  him.  He  started  up  with  a  changed  countenance,  and, 
in  spite  of  all  that  the  lady  could  say,  broke  off  across  the  garden, 
and  never  ceased  hastening  till  be  reached  the  place  where  he 
landed.  He  would  have  thrown  himself  into  the  sea,  rather  than 
stay  any  longer  in  that  island  ;  but  the  enchanted  barque  was  still 
on  the  shore.  He  sprang  into  it,  and  attempted  instantly  to  push 
off,  for  he  still  saw  nobody  in  it  but  himself;  but  the  barque  for 
a  while  resisted  his  efforts  ;  till,  on  his  feeling  a  wish  to  drown 
himself,  or  to  do  any  thing  rather  than  return  to  that  detested 
house,  it  suddenly  loosed  itself  from  its  moorings,  and  dashed 
away  with  him  over  the  sea,  as  if  in  a  fury. 

All  night  did  the  pilotless  barque  dash  on,  till  it  reached,  in  the 
morning,  a  distant  shore  covered  with  a  gloomy  forest.  Here 
Rinaldo,  surrounded  by  enchantments  of  a  very  different  sort  from 
those  which  he  had  lately  resisted,  was  entrapped  into  a  pit. 

The  pit  belonged  to  a  castle  which  was  hung  with  human  heads, 
and  painted  red  with  blood  ;  and  as  the  Paladin  was  calling  upon 
God  to  help  him,  a  hideous  white-headed  old  v/oman,  of  a  spite- 
ful countenance,  made  her  appearance  on  the  edge  of  the  pit,  and 
told  him  that  he  must  fight  with  a  monster  born  of  Death  and 
Desire. 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  the  Paladin.  "  Let  me  but  remain  armed  as 
I  am,  and  I  fear  nothing."  For  Rinaldo  had  with  him  his  re- 
nowned sword  Fusberta.* 

*  Sometimes  called  in  the  romances  Frusherta  (query,  from  fourbir,  to  bur- 
nish; ot  froisser,  to  crush?).    The  meaning  does  not  seem  to  be  known.    I 


260  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ANGELICA. 

The  old  woman  laughed  in  derision.  Rinaldo  remained  in  the 
den  all  night,  and  next  day  was  taken  to  a  place  where  a  portcul- 
lis was  lifted  up,  and  the  monster  rushed  forth.  He  was  a  mix- 
ture of  hog  and  serpent,  larger  than  an  ox,  and  not  to  be  looked 
at  without  horror.  He  had  eyes  like  a  traitor,  the  hands  of  a 
man,  but  clawed,  a  beard  dabbled  with  blood,  a  skin  of  coarse 
variegated  colours,  too  hard  to  be  cut  through,  and  two  horns  on 
his  temples,  which  he  could  turn  on  all  sides  of  him  at  his  plea- 
sure, and  which  were  so  sharp  that  they  cut  like  a  sword. 

Rising  on  his  hind-legs,  and  opening  a  mouth  six  palms  in 
width,  this  horrible  beast  fell  heavily  on  Rinaldo,  who  was  never- 
theless quick  enough  to  give  it  a  blow  on  the  snout  which  increas- 
ed its  fury.  Returning  the  knight  a  tremendous  cuff,  it  seized 
his  coat  of  mail  between  breast  and  shoulder,  and  tore  away  a 
great  strip  of  it  down  to  the  girdle,  leaving  the  skin  bare.  Every 
successive  rent  and  blow  was  of  the  like  irresistible  violence  ; 
and  though  the  Paladin  himself  never  fought  with  more  force  and 
fury,  he  lost  blood  every  instant.  The  monster  at  length  tearing 
his  sword  out  of  his  hand,  the  Paladin  surely  began  to  think  that 
his  last  hour  was  arrived. 

Looking  about  to  see  what  might  possibly  help  him,  he  observ- 
ed overhead  a  beam  sticking  out  of  a  wall  at  the  height  of  some 
ten  feet.  He  took  a  leap  more  than  human ;  and  reaching  the 
beam  with  his  hand,  succeeded  in  flinging  himself  up  across  it. 
Here  he  sat  for  hours,  the  furious  brute  continually  trying  to 
reach  him.  Night-time  then  came  on  with  a  clear  starry  sky  and 
moonlight,  and  the  Paladin  could  discern  no  way  of  escaping, 
when  he  heard  a  sound  of  something,  he  knew  not  what,  coming 
through  the  air  like  a  bird.  Suddenly  a  female  figure  stood  on 
the  end  of  the  beam,  holding  something  in  her  hand  towards  him, 
and  speaking  in  a  loving  voice. 

It  was  Angelica,  come  with  means  for  destroying  the  monster, 
and  carrying  the  knight  away. 

But  the  moment  Rinaldo  saw  her,  desperate  as  seemed  to  be 
his  condition,  he  renounced  all  offers  of  her  assistance  ;  and  at 

ought  to  have  observed,  in  the  notes  to  Pulci,  that  the  name  of  Orlando's  sword, 
Durlindana  (called  also  Durindana,  Durandal,  &c.),  is  understood  to  mean 
Hardrhitter. 


THE   ADVENTURES   OF  ANGELICA.  961 


length  became  so  exasperated  with  her  good  offices,  especially 
wlicn  she  opened  her  arms  and  olFcred  to  bear  iiim  away  in  them, 
that  he  threatened  to  cast  himself  down  to  the  monster  if  slie  did 
not  jTO  away.* 

Angelica,  saying  that  she  would  lose  her  life  rather  than  dis- 
please him,  descended  from  the  beam  ;  and  having  given  the  mon- 
6ter  a  cake  of  wax  which  fastened  up  his  teeth,  and  then  caught 
and  fixed  him  in  a  set  of  nooses  she  had  brought  for  that  purpose, 
took  her  miserable  departure.  Rinaldo  upon  this  got  down  from 
the  beam  himself;  and  liaving  succeeded,  though  with  the  great- 
est difhculty,  in  beating  and  squeezing  the  life  out  of  the  monster, 
dealt  such  havoc  among  the  people  of  the  castle  who  assailed  him, 
that  the  horrible  old  woman,  whose  crimes  had  made  her  the  crea- 
ture's housekeeper,  and  led  her  to  take  delight  in  its  cruelty, 
threw  herself  headlona;  from  a  tower.  The  Paladin  then  took  his 
wav  forth,  turning  his  back  on  the  castle  and  the  sea-shore. 

Angelica  returned  to  the  capital  of  her  father's  dominion,  Al- 
bracca  ;  and  the  pertinacity  of  others  in  seeking  her  love  being 
as  great  as  that  of  hers  for  Rinaldo,  she  found  King  Galafron,  in 
a  short  time,  besieged  there  for  her  sake,  by  the  fierce  Agrican, 
kinsj  of  Tartarv. 

In  a  short  time  a  jealous  feud  sprang  up  between  the  loving 
friends  Rinaldo  and  Orlando  ;  and  Angelica,  torn  with  conflicting 
emotions,  from  her  dread  on  her  father's  account  as  well  as  her 
own,  and  her  aversion  to  every  knight  but  her  detester,  was  at 
one  time  compelled  to  apply  to  Orlando  for  assistance,  and  at  an- 
other, being  afraid  that  he  would  have  the  better  of  Rinaldo  in 
combat,  to  send  him  away  on  a  perilous  adventure  elsewhere, 
with  a  promise  of  accepting  his  love  should  he  succeed. f  Or- 
lando went,  but  not  before  he  had  slain  Agrican  and  delivered 
Albracca.  Circumstances,  however,  again  took  him  with  her  to 
a  distance,  as  the  reader  will  see,  ere  he  could  bring  her  to  per- 
form her  promise  ;  and  the  Paladins  in  general  having  again  been 

*  The  force  of  aversion  was  surely  never  better  imagined  than  in  this  scene 
of  the  opened  arms  of  beauty,  and  the  knight's  preference  of  the  most  odious 
death. 

t  Legalised,  I  presume,  by  a  divorce  from  the  hero's  wife,  the  fair  Alda ;  who, 

though  she  is  generally  designated  by  that  epithet,  seems  never  to  have  had 

much  of  his  attention. 

4« 


262  THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 

scattered  abroad,  it  happened  that  Rinaldo  a  second  time  found 
himself  in  the  forest  of  Arden  ;  and  here,  without  expecting  it, 
he  became  an  aUered  man  ;  for  he  now  tasted  a  very  different 
stream  from  that  which  had  given  him  his  hate  for  Angelica ; 
namely,  the  one  which  had  made  her  fall  in  love  with  himself. 
He  was  led  to  do  this  by  a  very  extraordinary  adventure. 

In  the  thick  of  the  forest  he  had  come  upon  a  mead  full  of 
flowers,  in  which  there  was  a  naked  youth,  singing  in  the  midst 
of  three  damsels,  who  were  naked  also,  and  who  were  dancing 
round  about  him.  They  had  bunches  of  flowers  in  their  hands, 
and  garlands  on  their  heads  ;  and  as  they  were  thus  delighting 
themselves,  with  faces  full  of  love  and  joy,  they  suddenly  changed 
countenance  on  seeing  Rinaldo.  "Behold,"  cried  they,  "the 
traitor  !  Behold  him,  villain  that  he  is,  and  the  scorner  of  all 
delights  !  He  has  fallen  into  the  net  at  last."  With  these  words 
they  fell  upon  him  with  the  flowers  like  so  many  furies ;  and  ten- 
der as  such  scourges  might  be  thought,  every  blow  which  the 
roses  and  violets  gave  him,  every  fresh  stroke  of  the  lilies  and 
the  hyacinths,  smote  him  to  the  very  heart,  and  filled  iiis  veins 
with  fire.  The  flowers  in  the  hands  of  the  nymphs  being  ex- 
hausted, the  youth  gave  him  a  blow  on  the  helmet  with  a  tall 
garden-lily,  which  felled  him  to  the  earth  ;  and  so,  taking  him  by 
the  legs,  and  dragging  him  over  the  grass,  his  conqueror  went  the 
whole  circuit  of  the  mead  with  him,  the  nymphs  taking  the  veiy 
garlands  off"  their  heads,  and  again  scourging  him  with  their  white 
and  red  roses.* 

At  the  close  of  this  discipline,  which  left  him  more  exhausted 
than  twenty  battles,  his  enemies  suddenly  developed  wings  from 
their  shoulders,  the  feathers  of  which  were  of  white  and  gold  and 
vermilion,  every  feather  having  an  eye  in  it,  not  like  those  in  the 
peacock's  feathers,  but  one  full  of  life  and  motion,  being  a  female 
eye,  lovely  and  gracious.  And  v.ith  these  wings  they  poised 
themselves  a  little,  and  so  sprung  up  to  heaven. "f" 

*  This  violent  effect  of  weapons  so  extremely  gentle  is  beautifully  conceived. 

t  The  "female  eye,  lovely  and  gracious,"  is  charmingly  painted  per  se ;  but 
of  this  otherwise  thoroughly  beautiful  description  I  must  venture  to  doubt, 
whether  living  eyes  of  any  sort,  instead  of  those  in  the  peacock's  feathers,  are 
in  good  taste.     The  imagination  revolts  from  life  misplaced. 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  2G3 


Tlie  Paladin,  more  dead  tlian  alive,  lay  helpless  among  the 
flowers,  when  a  fourth  nymph  came  up  to  him,  of  inexpressible 
beauty.  She  told  him  that  he  had  grievously  otlended  the  naked 
youth,  who  was  no  other  than  Love  himself;  and  added,  that  his 
only  remedy  was  to  be  penitent,  and  to  drink  t)f  the  waters  of  a 
stream  hard  by,  which  he  would  fmd  running  from  the  roots  of 
an  olive-tree  and  a  pine.  With  these  \yords,  she  vanished  in  her 
turn  like  the  rest;  and  Rinaldo,  dragging  himself  as  well  as  he 
could  to  the  olive  and  pine,  stooped  down,  and  greedily  drank  of 
the  water.  Again  and  again  he  drank,  and  wished  still  to  be 
drinking,  for  it  took  not  only  all  pain  out  of  his  limbs,  but  all  hate 
and  bitterness  out  of  his  soul,  and  produced  such  a  remorseful  and 
doating  memory  of  Angelica,  that  he  would  fain  have  galloped 
that  instant  to  Cathay,  and  prostrated  himself  at  her  feet.  By  de- 
grees he  knew  the  place  ;  and  looking  round  about  him,  and  pre- 
paring to  remount  his  horse,  he  discerned  a  knight  and  a  lady  in 
the  distance.  The  knight  was  in  a  coat  of  armour  unknown  to 
him,  and  the  lady  kneeling  and  drinking  at  a  fountain,  which  was 
the  one  that  had  formerly  quenched  his  own  thirst ;  to  wit,  the 
Fountain  of  Disdain. 

Alas  !  it  was  Angelica  herself;  and  the  knight  was  Orlando. 
She  had  allowed  him  to  bring  her  into  France,  ostensibly  for  the 
purpose  of  wedding  him  at  the  court  of  Charlemagne,  whither  the 
hero's  assistance  had  been  called  against  Agramant  king  of  the 
Moors,  but  secretly  with  the  object  of  discovering  Rinaldo.  Ri- 
naldo, behold  !  is  discovered  ;  but  the  fatal  averse  water  has  been 
drunk,  and  Angelica  now  hates  him  in  turn,  as  cordially  as  he 
detested  her.  In  vain  he  accosted  her  in  the  humblest  and  most 
repentant  manner,  calling  himself  the  unworthiest  of  mankind, 
and  entreating  to  be  allowed  to  love  her.  Orlando,  disclosing 
himself,  fiercely  interrupted  him ;  and  a  combat  so  terrific  en- 
sued, that  Angelica  fled  away  on  her  palfrey  till  she  came  to  a 
large  plain,  in  which  she  beheld  an  army  encamped. 

The  army  was  Charlemagne's,  who  had  come  to  meet  Roda- 
monte,  one  of  the  vassals  of  Agramant.  Angelica,  in  a  tremble, 
related  how  she  had  left  the  two  Paladins  fighting  in  the  wood  ; 
and  Charlemagne,  who  was  delighted  to  find  Orlando  so  near 
hhn,  proceeded  thither  with  his  lords,  and  parting  the  combatants 


261  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ANGELICA. 

by  his  royal  authority,  suppressed  the  dispute  between  them  for 
the  present,  by  consigning  the  object  of  their  contention  to  the 
care  of  Namo  duke  of  Bavaria,  with  the  understanding  that  she 
was  to  be  the  prize  of  the  warrior  who  should  best  deserve  her 
in  the  approaching  battle  with  the  infidels. 

[This  is  the  last  we  hear  of  Angelica  in  the  unfinished  poem 
of  Boiardo.  For  the  close  of  her  history  see  its  continuation  by 
Ariosto  in  the  present  volume.] 


THE  DEATH  OF  AGRICAN. 


Argument. 

Agrican,  king  of  Tartary,  in  love  with  Angelica,  and  baffled  by  the  prowess 
of  the  unknown  Orlando  in  his  attempts  to  bring  the  siege  of  Albracca  to  a 
favourable  conclusion,  entices  him  apart  from  the  battle  into  a  wood,  in  the  hope 
of  killing  him  in  single  combat.  The  combat  is  suspended  by  the  arrival  of 
night-time ;  and  a  conversation  ensues  between  the  warriors,  which  is  furiously 
interrupted  by  Agrican's  discovery  of  his  rival,  and  the  latter's  refusal  to  re- 
nounce his  love.  Agrican  is  slain  ;  and  in  his  dying  moments  requests  baptism 
at  the  hand  of  his  conqueror,  who,  with  great  tenderness,  bestows  it. 


THE    DEATH    OF    AGRICAN. 


The  siege  of  Albracca  was  going  on  formidably  under  the 
command  of  Agrican,  and  the  city  of  Galafron  was  threatened 
with  the  loss  of  the  monarch's  daughter,  Angelica,  when  Orlan- 
do, at  his  earnest  prayer,  came  to  assist  him,  and  changing  at 
once  the  whole  course  of  the  war,  threw  the  enemy  in  his  turn 
into  transports  of  anxiety.  Wherever  the  great  Paladin  came, 
pennon  and  standard  fell  before  him.  Men  were  cut  up  and 
cloven  down,  at  every  stroke  of  his  sword ;  and  whereas  the 
Indians  had  been  in  full  rout  but  a  moment  before,  and  the  Tar- 
tars ever  on  their  flanks,  Galafron  himself  being  the  swiftest 
among  the  spurrers  away,  it  was  now  the  Tartars  that  fled  for 
their  lives  ;  for  Orlando  was  there,  and  a  band  of  fresh  knights 
were  about  him,  and  Agrican  in  vain  attempted  to  rally  his  troops. 
The  Paladin  kept  him  constantly  in  his  front,  forcing  him  to  at- 
tend to  nobody  else. 

The  Tartar  king,  who  cared  not  a  button  for  Galafron  and  all 
his  army,*  provided  he  could  but  rid  himself  of  this  terrible 
knight  (whom  he  guessed  at,  but  did  not  know),  bethought  him  of 
a  stratagem.  He  turned  his  horse,  and  made  a  show  of  flying 
in  despair.  Orlando  dashed  after  him,  as  he  desired  ;  and  Agri- 
can fled  till  he  reached  a  green  place  in  a  wood,  with  a  fountain 
in  it. 

The  place  was  beautiful,  and  the  Tartar  dismounted  to  refresh 
himself  at  the  fountain,  but  without  taking  off'  his  helmet,  or  lay- 
ing aside  any  of  his  armour.  Orlando  was  quickly  at  his  back, 
crying  out,  "  So  bold,  and  yet  such  a  fugitive  !     How  could  you 

*  "  Che  tutti  insietne,  e  'I  suo  Rb  Galafrone, 
Non  li  stimava  quanto  un  vil  bottone." 


268  _  THE  DEATH  OF  AGRICAN. 

fly  from  a  single  arm,  and  yet  think  to  escape  ?  When  a  man 
can  die  with  honour,  he  should  be  glad  to  die  ;  for  he  may  live 
and  fare  worse.     He  may  get  death  and  infamy  together." 

The  Tartar  king  had  leaped  on  his  saddle  the  moment  he  saw 
his  enemy ;  and  when  the  Paladin  had  done  speaking,  he  said  in 
a  mild  voice,  "  Without  doubt  you  are  the  best  knight  I  ever  en- 
countered ;  and  fain  would  I  leave  you  untouched  for  your  own 
sake,  if  you  would  cease  to  hinder  me  from  rallying  my  people. 
I  pretended  to  fly,  in  order  to  bring  you  out  of  the  field.  If  you 
insist  upon  fighting,  I  must  needs  fight  and  slay  you  ;  but  I  call 
the  sun  in  the  heavens  to  witness,  that  I  would  rather  not.  I 
should  be  very  sorry  for  your  death." 

The  County  Orlando  felt  pity  for  so  much  gallantry ;  and  he 
said,  "The  nobler  you  shew  yourself,  the  more  it  grieves  me  to 
think,  that  in  dying  without  a  knowledge  of  the  true  faith,  you 
will  be  lost  in  the  other  world.  Let  me  advise  you  to  save*  body 
and  soul  at  once.     Receive  baptism,  and  go  your  way  in  peace." 

Agrican  looked  him  in  the  face,  and  replied,  "  I  suspect  you 
to  be  the  Paladin  Orlando.  If  you  are,  I  would  not  lose  this  op- 
portunity of  fighting  with  you,  to  be  king  of  Paradise.  Talk  to 
me  no  more  about  your  things  of  the  other  world  ;  for  you  will 
preach  in  vain.  Each  of  us  for  himself,  and  let  the  sword  be 
umpire." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  The  Tartar  drew  his  sword,  boldly 
advancing  upon  Orlando ;  and  a  cut  and  thrust  fight  began,  so  long 
and  so  terrible,  each  warrior  being  a  miracle  of  prowess,  that  the 
story  says  it  lasted  from  noon  till  night.  Orlando  then,  seeing 
the  stars  come  out,  was  the  first  to  propose  a  respite. 

"What  are  we  to  do,"  said  he,  "now  that  daylight  has  left 
us?" 

Agrican  answered  readily  enough,  "  Let  us  repose  in  this 
meadow,  and  renew  the  combat  at  dawn." 

The  repose  was  taken  accordingly.  Each  tied  up  his  horse, 
and  reclined  himself  on  the  grass,  not  far  from  one  another,  just 
as  if  they  had  been  friends, — Orlando  by  the  fountain,  Agrican 
beneath  a  pine.  It  was  a  beautiful  clear  night ;  and  as  they 
talked  together  before  addressing  themselves  to  sleep,  the  cham- 
pion of  Christendom,  looking  up  at  the  firmament,  said,  "  That  is 


THE  DEATH   OF   AGRICAN.  269 

a  fine  piece  of  worknmnship,  that  starry  spectacle.  God  made 
it  all, — that  moon  of  silver,  and  those  stars  of  gold,  and  the  light 
of  day  and  the  sun, — all  for  the  sake  of  human  kind." 

"  You  wish,  I  see,  to  talk  of  matters  of  faith,"  said  the  Tartar. 
"  Now  I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once,  that  I  have  no  sort  of  skill 
in  such  matters,  nor  learning  of  any  kind.  1  never  could  learn 
anything  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  hated  it  so,  that  I  broke  the  man's 
head  who  was  commissioned  to  teach  me  ;  and  it  produced  such 
an  elfect  on  others,  that  nobody  ever  afterwards  dared  so  much  as 
shew  me  a  book.  My  boyhood  was  therefore  passed  as  it  should 
be,  in^horsemanship,  and  hunting,  and  learning  to  fight.  What  is 
the  good  of  a  gentleman's  poring  all  day  over  a  book  ?  Prowess 
to  the  knight,  and  prattle  to  the  clergyman.     That  is  my  motto." 

"  I  acknowledge,"  returned  Orlando,  "  that  arms  are  the  first 
consideration  of  a  gentleman  ;  but  not  at  all  that  he  does  himself 
dishonour  by  knowledge.  On  the  contrary,  knowledge  is  as  great 
an  embellishment  of  the  rest  of  his  attainments,  as  the  flowers  are 
to  the  meadow  before  us  ;  and  as  to  the  knowledge  of  his  Maker, 
the  man  that  is  without  it  is  no  better  than  a  stock  or  a  stone,  or 
a  brute  beast.  Neither,  without  study,  can  he  reach  anything 
like  a  due  sense  of  the  depth  and  divineness  of  the  contemplation." 

"  Learned  or  not  learned,"  said  Agrican,  "  you  might  shew 
yourself  better  bred  than  by  endeavouring  to  make  me  talk  on  a 
subject  on  which  you  have  me  at  a  disadvantage.  I  have  frankly 
told  you  what  sort  of  person  I  am  ;  and  I  dare  say,  that  you 
for  your  part  are  very  learned  and  wise.  You  will  therefore  per- 
mit me,  if  you  say  anything  more  of  such  things,  to  make  you 
no  answer.  If  you  choose  to  sleep,  I  wish  you  good  night ;  but 
if  you  prefer  talking,  I  recommend  you  to  talk  of  fighting,  or  of 
fair  ladies.  And,  by  the  way,  pray  tell  me — are  you,  or  are  you 
not,  may  I  ask,  that  Orlando  who  makes  such  a  noise  in  the 
world  ?  And  what  is  it,  pray,  brings  you  into  these  parts  ? 
Were  you  ever  in  love  ?  I  suppose  you  must  have  been  ;  for  to 
be  a  knight  and  never  to  have  been  in  love,  would  be  like  being  a 
man  with  no  heart  in  his  breast." 

The  County   replied,  "  Orlando  I    am,   and  in    love   I    am.* 

♦  Bemi  has  here  introduced  the  touching  words,  "  Would  I  were  not  so !" 
(Cos!  non  foss'  io !) 


270  THE  DEATH  OF   AGRICAN. 

Love  has  made  me  abandon  every  thing,  and  brought  me  into 
these  distant  regions ;  and  to  tell  you  all  in  one  word,  my  heart 
is  in  the  hands  of  the  daughter  of  King  Galafron.  You  have 
come  against  him  with  fire  and  sword,  to  get  possession  of  his 
castles  and  his  dominions ;  and  I  have  come  to  help  him,  for  no 
object  in  the  world  but  to  please  his  daughter,  and  win  her  beau- 
tiful hand.     I  care  for  nothing  else  in  existence." 

Now  when  the  Tartar  king  Agrican  heard  his  antagonist  speak 
in  this  manner,  and  knew  him  to  be  indeed  Orlando,  and  to  be  in 
love  with  Angelica,  his  face  changed  colour  for  grief  and  jeal- 
ousy, though  it  could  not  be  seen  for  the  darkness.  His  heart 
began  beating  with  such  violence,  that  he  felt  as  if  he  should 
have  died.  "  Well,"  said  he  to  Orlando,  "  we  are  to  fight  when 
it  is  daylight,  and  one  or  the  other  is  to  be  left  here,  dead  on  the 
ground.  I  have  a  proposal  to  make  to  you  ;  nay,  an  entreaty. 
My  love  is  so  excessive  for  the  same  lady,  that  I  beg  you  to  leave 
her  to  me.  I  will  owe  you  my  thanks,  and  give  up  the  fight  my- 
self.  I  cannot  bear  that  any  one  else  should  love  her,  and  I  live 
to  see  it.  Why,  therefore,  should  either  of  us  perish  ?  Give 
her  up.     Not  a  soul  shall  know  it."* 

"  I  never  yet,"  answered  Orlando,  "  made  a  promise  which  I 
did  not  keep ;  and,  nevertheless,  I  own  to  you,  that  were  I  to 
make  a  promise  like  that,  and  even  swear  to  keep  it,  I  should  not. 
You  might  as  well  ask  me  to  tear  away  the  limbs  from  my  body, 
and  the  eyes  out  of  my  head.  I  could  as  soon  live  without 
breath  itself,  as  cease  loving  Angelica." 

Agrican  had  scarcely  patience  enough  to  let  the  speaker  finish, 
ere  he  leaped  furiously  on  horseback,  though  it  was  midnight. 
"  Quit  her,"  said  he,  "  or  die  !" 

Orlando,  seeing  the  infidel  getting  up,  and  not  being  sure  that 
he  would  not  add  treachery  to  fierceness,  had  been  hardly  less 
quick  in  mounting  for  the  combat.  "  Never  !"  exclaimed  he. 
"  I  never  could  have  quitted  her  if  I  would  ;  and  now  I  wouldn't 
if  I  could.     You  must  seek  her  by  other  means  than  these." 

Fiercely  dashed  their  horses  together,  in  the  night-time,  on  the 

*  This  proposal  is  in  the  highest  ingenuous  spirit  of  the  absurd  wilfulness  of 
passion,  thinking  that  every  tiling  is  to  give  way  before  it,  not  excepting  the 
same  identical  wishes  in  other  people. 


THE  DEATH   OF   AGRICAN.  271 


green  mead.  Despiteful  and  terrible  were  the  blows  they  gave 
and  took  by  the  moonliglit.  There  was  no  need  of  their  looking 
out  for  one  another,  night-time  though  it  was.  Tlieir  business 
was  to  take  a  sharp  liced  of  every  movement,  as  if  it  iiad  been 
noon-day.* 

Afi-rican  fought  in  a  rage  :  Orlando  was  cooler.  And  now  the 
struiTcle  had  lasted  more  than  five  hours,  and  dawn  began  to  be 
visible,  when  the  Tartar  king,  furious  to  find  so  much  trouble 
given  him,  dealt  his  enemy  a  blow  sharp  and  violent  beyond  con- 
ception. It  cut  the  shield  in  two,  as  if  it  had  been  a  cheesecake  ; 
and  thongli  blood  could  not  be  drawn  from  Orlando,  because  he 
was  foted,  it  shook  and  bruised  him,  as  if  it  had  started  every 
joint  in  his  body. 

His  body  only,  however  ;  not  a  particle  of  his  soul.  So  dread, 
ful  was  the  blow  which  the  Paladin  gave  in  return,  that  not  only 
shield,  but  every  bit  of  mail  on  the  body  of  Agrican,  was  broken 
in  pieces,  and  three  of  his  left  ribs  cut  asunder. 

The  Tartar,  roaring  like  a  lion,  raised  his  sword  with  still 
greater  vehemence  than  before,  and  dealt  a  blow  on  the  Paladin's 
helmet,  such  as  he  had  never  yet  received  from  mortal  man. 
For  a  moment  it  took  away  his  senses.  His  sight  failed  ;  his 
ears  tinkled  ;  his  frightened  horse  turned  about  to  fly  ;  and  he  was 
falling  from  the  saddle,  when  the  very  action  of  falling  jerked 
his  head  upwards,  and  with  the  jerk  he  regained  his  recollection. 

"  O  my  God  !"  thought  he,  "  what  a  shame  is  this  !  how  shall  I 
ever  again  dare  to  face  Angelica  !  I  have  been  fighting,  hour 
after  hour,  with  this  man,  and  he  is  but  one,  and  I  call  myself 
Orlando.  If  the  combat  last  any  longer,  I  will  bury  myself  in  a 
monastery,  and  never  look  on  sword  again." 

Orlando  muttered  with  his  lips  closed  and  his  teeth  ground  to- 
gether ;  and  you  might  have  thought  that  fire  instead  of  breath 
came  out  of  his  nose  and  mouth.  He  raised  his  sword  Durindana 
with  both  his  hands,  and  sent  it  down  so  tremendously  on  Agri- 
can's  left  shoulder,  that  it  cut  through  breast-plate  and  belly- 
piece  down  to  the  very  haunch  ;  nay,  crushed  the  saddle-bow, 
thouo-h  it  was  made  of  bone  and  iron,  and  felled  man  and  horse 
to  the  earth.      From  shoulder  to  hip  was  Agrican  cut  through  his 

*  Very  fine  all  this,  I  (bink. 


272  THE   DEATH   OF   AGRICAN. 

weary  soul,  and  he  turned  as  white  as  ashes,  and  felt  death  upon 
him.  He  called  Orlando  to  come  close  to  him  with  a  gentle 
voice,  and  said,  as  well  as  he  could,  "  I  believe  in  Him  who  died 
on  the  Cross.  Baptise  me,  I  pray  thee,  with  the  fountain,  before 
my  senses  are  gone.  I  have  lived  an  evil  life,  but  need  not  be 
rebellious  to  God  in  death  also.  May  He  who  came  to  save  all 
the  rest  of  the  world,  save  me  !     He  is  a  God  of  great  mercy." 

And  he  shed  tears,  did  that  king,  though  he  had  been  so  lofty 
and  fierce. 

Orlando  dismounted  quickly,  with  his  own  face  in  tears.  He 
gathered  the  king  tenderly  in  his  arms,  and  took  and  laid  him  by 
the  fountain,  on  a  marble  cirque  which  it  had ;  and  then  he  wept 
in  concert  with  him  heartily,  and  asked  his  pardon,  and  so  bap- 
tised him  in  the  water  of  the  fountain,  and  knelt  and  prayed  to 
God  for  him  with  joined  hands. 

He  then  paused  and  looked  at  him  ;  and  when  he  perceived 
his  countenance  changed,  and  that  his  whole  person  was  cold,  he 
left  him  there  on  the  marble  cirque  by  the  fountain,  all  armed  as 
he  was,  with  the  sword  by  his  side,  and  the  crown  upon  his 
head. 


I  think  I  may  anticipate  the  warm  admiration  of  the  reader  for  the  whole 
of  this  beautiful  episode,  particularly  its  close.  "  I  think,"  says  Panizzi,  "  that 
Tasso  had  this  passage  particularly  in  \iew  when  he  wrote  the  duel  of  Clorinda 
and  Tancredi,  and  her  conversion  and  baptism  before  dying.  The  whole  pas- 
sage, from  stanza  xii.  (where  Agrican  receives  his  mortal  blow)  to  this,  is  beau- 
tiful ;  and  the  deUcate  proceeding  of  Orlando  in  leaAdng  Agrican's  body  armed 
even  with  the  sword  in  his  hand,  is  in  the  noblest  spirit  of  chivalry." — Edition 
of  Boiardo  and  Ariosto,  vol.  iii.  pace  357. 

The  reader  will  find  the  original  in  the  Appendix  No.  I. 

In  the  course  of  the  poem  (canto  xix.  stanza  xxvi.)  a  knight,  with  the  same 
noble  delicacy,  who  is  in  distress  for  a  set  of  anns,  borrows  those  belonging  to 
the  dead  body,  with  many  excuses,  and  a  kiss  on  its  face. 


THE    SARACEN   FRIENDS. 


A    FAIRY    LOVE-TALE. 


Prasildo,  a  nobleman  of  Babylon,  to  his  great  anguish,  falls  in  love  with  his 
friend's  wife,  Tisbina;  and  being  overheard  by  her  and  her  husband  threatening 
to  kill  himself,  the  lady,  hoping  to  divert  him  from  his  passion  by  time  and  ab- 
sence, promises  to  return  it  on  condition  of  his  performing  a  distant  and  peril- 
ous adventure.  He  performs  the  adventure ;  and  the  husband  and  wife,  suppo- 
sing that  there  is  no  other  way  of  her  escaping  the  consequences,  resolve  to  take 
poison ;  after  which  the  lady  goes  to  Prasildo's  house,  and  informs  him  of  their 
having  done  so.  Prasildo  resolves  to  die  with  them  ;  but  hearing,  in  the  mean 
time,  that  the  apothecary  had  given  them  a  drink  that  was  harmless,  he  goes 
and  tells  them  of  their  good  fortune ;  upon  which  the  husband  is  so  struck  with 
his  generosity,  that  he  voluntarily  quits  Babylon  for  life,  and  the  lady  marries 
the  lover.  The  new  husband  subsequently  hears  that  his  friend's  life  is  in  dan- 
ger, and  quits  the  wife  to  go  and  deliver  him  from  it  at  the  risk  of  his  own, 
which  he  does. 

This  story,  which  has  resemblances  to  it  in  Boccaccio  and  Chaucer,  is  told  to 
Rinaldo  while  ridincr  throuo-h  a  wood  in  Asia,  with  a  damsel  behind  him  on  the 
same  horse.  He  has  encracred  to  combat  in  her  behalf  with  a  band  of  knights  : 
and  the  lady  relates  it  to  beguile  the  way. 

The  reader  is  to  bear  in  inind,  that  the  age  of  chivalry  took  delight  in  mooting 
points  of  love  and  friendship,  such  as  in  after  times  would  have  been  out  of  the 
question ;  and  that  the  parties  in  this  story  are  Mahometans,  with  whom  divorce 
was  an  easy  thing,  and  caused  no  scandal. 


THE    S.IRACEN   FRIENDS. 


Iroldo,  a  knight  of  Babylon,  had  to  wife  a  lady  of  the  name 
of  Tisbina,  whom  he  loved  with  a  passion  equal  to  that  of  Tristan 
for  Iseult  ;*  and  she  returned  his  love  with  such  fondness,  that 
her  thoutjhts  were  occupied  with  him  from  morninff  till  nicht. 
Among  other  pleasant  circumstances  of  their  position,  they  had  a 
neighbour  who  was  accounted  the  greatest  nobleman  in  tiie  citv  ; 
and  he  deserved  his  credit,  for  he  spent  his  great  riches  in  doing 
nothing  but  honour  to  his  rank.  He  was  pleasant  in  company, 
formidable  in  battle,  full  of  grace  in  love  ;  an  open-hearted,  ac- 
complished gentleman. 

This  personage,  whose  name  was  Prasildo,  happened  to  be  of  a 
party  one  day  with  Tisbina,  who  were  amusing  themselves  in  a 
garden,  with  a  game  in  which  the  players  knelt  down  with  their 
faces  bent  on  one  another's  laps,  and  guessed  who  it  was  that 
struck  them.  The  turn  came  to  himself,  and  he  knelt  down  to 
the  lap  of  Tisbina  ;  but  no  sooner  was  he  there,  than  he  expe- 
rienced feelings  he  had  never  dreamt  of ;  and  instead  of  trying 
to  guess  correctly,  took  all  the  pains  he  could  to  remain  in  the 
same  position. 

These  feelings  pursued  him  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  still 
more  closely  at  night.  He  did  nothing  but  think  and  sigh,  and 
find  the  soft  feathers  harder  than  any  stone.  Nor  did  he  get  bet- 
ter as  time  advanced.  His  once  favourite  pastime  of  hunting 
now  ceased  to  afford  him  any  delight.  Nothing  pleased  him  but 
to  be  giving  dinners  and  balls,  to  make  verses  and  sing  them  to 
his  lute,  and  to  joust  and  tournay  in  the  eyes  of  his  love,  dressed 
in  the  most  sumptuous  apparel.  But  above  all,  gentle  and  grace- 
ful as  he  had   been  before,  he  now  became  still  more  gentle  and 

•  The  hero  and  heroine  of  the  famous  romance  of  Tristan  de  Leonois. 


•27G  THE   SARACEN   FRIENDS. 

graceful — for  good  qualities  are  always  increased  when  a  man  is 
in  love.  Never  in  my  life  did  I  know  them  turn  to  ill  in  that 
case.  So,  in  Prasildo's,  you  may  guess  what  a  super-excellent 
person  he  became. 

The  passion  ^hich  had  thus  taken  possession  of  this  gentleman 
was  not  lost  upon  the  lady  for  want  of  her  knowing  it.  A  mu- 
tual acquaintance  was  always  talking  to  her  on  the  subject,  but 
to  no  purpose ;  she  never  relaxed  her  pride  and  dignity  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  lover  at  last  fell  ill  ;  he  iiurlv  wasted  aAvav  :  and 
was  so  unhappy,  that  he  gave  up  all  his  feastings  and  entertain- 
ments. The  only  pleasure* he  took  was  in  a  solitary  wood,  in 
wliich  he  used  to  plunge  himself  in  order  to  give  way  to  his  grief 
and  lamentations. 

It  happened  one  day,  early  in  the  morning,  while  he  was  thus 
occupied,  that  Iroldo  came  into  the  wood  to  amuse  himself  with 
bird-catching.  He  had  Tisbina  with  him;  and  as  they  were 
coming  along,  they  overheard  their  neighbour  during  one  of  his 
paroxysms,  and  stopped  to  listen  to  what  he  said. 

"  Hear  me,"  exclaimed  he,  "  ye  flowers  and  ye  woods.  Hear 
to  what  a  pass  of  wretchedness  I  am  come,  since  that  cruel  one 
will  hear  me  not.  Hear,  O  sun  tliat  hast  taken  away  the  night 
from  the  heavens,  and  you,  ye  stai*s,  and  thou  the  departing  moon, 
hear  the  voice  of  my  grief  for  the  last  time,  for  exist  I  can  no  lon- 
ger \  my  death  is  the  only  way  left  me  to  gratify  that  proud  beau- 
ty, to  whom  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to  give  a  cruel  heart  with  a 
merciful  countenance.  Fain  would  I  have  died  in  her  presence. 
It  would  have  comforted  me  to  see  her  pleased  even  with  that 
proof  of  my  love.  But  I  pray,  nevertheless,  that  she  may  never 
know  it ;  since,  cruel  as  she  is,  she  might  blame  herself  for  hav- 
ing she^^•n  a  scorn  so  extreme ;  and  I  love  her  so,  I  would  not 
have  her  pained  for  all  her  cruelty.  Surely  I  shall  love  her 
even  in  my  grave." 

Witli  these  words,  turning  pale  with  his  own  mortal  resolution, 
Prasildo  drew  his  sword,  and  pronouncing  the  name  of  Tisbina 
more  than  once  witli  a  loving  voice,  as  though  its  very  sound 
would  be  sufficient  to  waft  liim  to  Paradise,  was  about  to  plunge 
tlie  steel  into  his  bosom,  when  tlie  lady  herself,  by  leave  of  her 


THE   SARACEN    FRIENDS.  'J77 


husband,  whose  manly  visage  was  all  in  tears  for  pity,  stood  sud- 
denly before  him. 

"  Prasildo,"  said  she,  "  if  you  love  me,  listen  to  me.  You 
have  often  told  me  that  you  do  so.  Now  prove  it.  I  hapi)en  to 
be  threatened  with  notiiing  less  than  the  loss  of  life  and  honour. 
Nothing  short  of  such  a  calamity  could  have  induced  me  to  beg 
of  you  tlie  service  I  am  going  to  request ;  since  there  is  no 
tjreater  shame  in  the  world  than  to  ask  favours  from  those  to 
whom  we  have  refused  them.  But  I  now  promise  you,  that  if 
you  do  what  I  desire,  your  love  shall  be  returned.  I  give  you  my 
word  for  it.  1  give  you  my  honour.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
wilds  of  Barbary  is  a  garden  which  has  a  wall  of  iron.  It  has 
four  gates.  Life  itself  keeps  one;  Death  another;  Poverty  the 
third  ;  the  fairy  of  Riches  the  fourth.  He  who  goes  in  at  one 
gate  must  go  out  at  the  other  opposite ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
garden  is  a  tree,  tall  as  the  reach  of  an  arrow,  which  produces 
pearls  for  blossoms.  It  is  called  the  Tree  of  Wealth,  and  has 
fruit  of  emeralds  and  boughs  of  gold.  I  must  have  a  bough  of 
that  tree,  or  suffer  the  most  painful  consequences.  Now,  then, 
if  you  love  me,  I  say,  prove  it.  Prove  it,  and  most  assuredly  I 
shall  love  you  in  turn,  better  than  ever  you  loved  myself." 

What  need  of  saying  that  Prasildo,  with  haste  and  joy,  under- 
took to  do  all  that  she  required  ?  If  she  had  asked  the  sun  and 
stars,  and  the  whole  universe,  he  would  have  promised  them. 
Quitting  her  in  spite  of  his  love,  he  set  out  on  the  journey  with- 
out delay,  only  dressing  himself  before  he  left  the  city  in  the 
habit  of  a  pilgrim. 

Now  you  must  know,  that  Iroldo  and  his  lady  had  set  Prasildo 
on  that  adventure,  in  the  hope  that  the  great  distance  which  he 
would  have  to  travel,  and  the  change  which  it  might  assist  time 
to  produce,  would  deliver  him  from  his  passion.  At  all  events, 
in  case  this  good  end  was  not  effected  before  he  arrived  at  the 
garden,  they  counted  to  a  certainty  on  his  getting  rid  of  it  when 
he  did  ;  because  the  fiiry  of  that  garden,  which  was  called  the 
Garden  of  Medusa,  was  of  such  a  nature,  that  whosoever  did 
but  look  on  her  countenance  forgot  the  reason  for  his  going  thi- 
ther  ;  and  whoever  saluted,  touched,  and  sat  down  to  converse 
by  her  side,  forgot  all  that  had  ever  occurred  in  his  lifetime. 

PART  TT.  5 


•278  THE  SARACEN  FRIENDS. 

Away,  however,  on  his  steed  went  our  bold  lover  ;  all  alone, 
or  rather  with  Love  for  his  companion  ;  and  so,  riding  hard  till 
he  came  to  the  Red  Sea,  he  took  ship,  and  journeyed  through 
Egypt,  and  came  to  the  mountains  of  Barca,  where  he  overtook 
an  old  grey-headed  palmer. 

Prasildo  told  the  palmer  the  reason  of  his  coming,  and  the 
palmer  told  him  what  the  reader  has  heard  about  the  garden  ; 
adding,  that  he  must  enter  by  the  gate  of  Poverty,  and  take  no 
arms  or  armour  with  him,  excepting  a  looking-glass  for  a  shield, 
in  which  the  fairy  might  behold  her  beauty.  The  old  man  gave 
him  other  directions  necessary  for  his  passing  out  of  the  gate  of 
Riches  ;  and  Prasildo,  thanking  him,  went  on,  and  in  thirty  days 
found  himself  entering  the  garden  with  the  greatest  ease,  by  the 
gate  of  Poverty. 

The  garden  looked  like  a  Paradise,  it' was  so  full  of  beautiful 
trees,  and  flowers,  and  fresh  grass.  Prasildo  took  care  to  hold 
the  shield  over  his  eyes,  that  he  might  avoid  seeing  the  fairy 
Medusa  ;  and  in  this  manner,  guarding  his  approach,  he  arrived 
at  the  Golden  Tree.  The  fairy,  who  was  reclining  against  the 
trunk  of  it,  looked  up,  and  saw  herself  in  the  glass.  Wonder- 
ful was  the  effect  on  her.  Instead  of  her  own  white-and-red 
blooming  face,  she  beheld  that  of  a  dreadful  serpent.  The  spec- 
tacle made  her  take  to  flight  in  terror ;  and  the  lover  finding  his 
object  so  far  gained,  looked  freely  at  the  tree,  and  climbed  it,  and 
bore  away  a  bough.* 

With  this  he  proceeded  to  the  gate  of  Riches.  It  was  all  of 
loadstone,  and  opened  with  a  great  noise.  But  he  passed  through 
it  happily,  for  he  made  the  fairy  who  kept  it  a  present  of  half  the 
bough  ;  and  so  he  issued  forth  out  of  the  garden,  with  indescriba- 
ble joy. 

Behold  our  loving  adventurer  now  on  his  road  home.  Every 
step  of  the  way  appeared  to  him  a  thousand.  He  took  the  road 
of  Nubia  to  shorten  the  journey  ;  crossed  the  Arabian  Gulf  with 

*  "Mr.  Rose  observes,  that  Medusa  may  be  designed  by  Boiardo  as  the  '  type 
of  conscience;'  and  he  is  confirmed  in  his  opinion  by  the  circumstance  men- 
tioned in  this  canto  (12,  Ub.  i.  stan.  39)  of  Medusa  not  being  able  to  contemplate 
the  reflection  of  her  own  hideous  appearance,  though  beautiful  in  the  sight  of 
others.     I  fully  agree  with  him." — Panizzi,  ut  sup.,  vol.  iii.  p.  333. 


THE   SARACEN   FRIENDS.  279 

a  breeze  in  his  favour ;  and  travelling  by  night  as  well  as  by  day, 
arrived  one  fine  morning  in  Babylon. 

No  sooner  was  he  there  than  he  sent  to  tell  the  object  of  his 
passion  how  fortunate  he  had  been.  He  begged  her  to  name  her 
own  place  and  time  for  receiving  the  bough  at  his  hands,  taking 
care  to  remind  her  of  her  promise  ;  and  he  could  not  help  adding, 
that  he  should  die  if  she  broke  it. 

Terrible  was  the  grief  of  Tisbina  at  this  unlooked-for  news. 
She  threw  herself  on  her  couch  in  despair,  and  bewailed  the  hour 
she  was  born.  "  What  on  earth  am  I  to  do?"  cried  the  wretched 
lady  ;  "  death  itself  is  no  remedy  for  a  case  like  this,  since  it  is 
only  another  mode  of  breaking  my  word.  To  think  that  Prasildo 
should  return  from  the  garden  of  Medusa  !  who  could  have  sup- 
posed it  possible  ?  And  yet,  in  truth,  what  a  fool  I  was  to  sup- 
pose any  thing  impossible  to  love !  O  my  husband  !  little  didst 
thou  think  what  thou  thyself  advisedst  me  to  promise  !" 

The  husband  was  coming  that  moment  towards  the  room  ;  and 
overhearing  his  wife  grieving  in  this  distracted  manner,  he  en- 
tered and  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  On  learning  the  cause  of  her 
affliction,  he  felt  as  though  he  should  have  died  with  her  on  the 
spot. 

*'Alas!"  cried  he,  "that  it  should  be  possible  for  me  to  be 
miserable  while  I  am  so  dear  to  your  heart.  But  you  know,  O 
my  soul !  that  when  love  and  jealousy  come  together,  the  torment 
is  the  greatest  in  the  world.  Myself — myself,  alas  !  caused  the 
mischief,  and  myself  alone  ought  to  suffer  for  it.  You  must  keep 
your  promise.  You  must  abide  by  the  word  you  have  given, 
especially  to  one  who  has  undergone  so  much  to  perform  what 
you  asked  him.  Sweet  face,  you  must.  But  oh  !  see  him  not 
till  after  I  am  dead.  Let  Fortune  do  with  me  what  she  pleases, 
so  that  I  be  saved  from  a  disgrace  like  that.  It  will  be  a  comfort 
to  me  in  death  to  think  that  I  alone,  while  I  was  on  earth,  enjoyed 
the  fond  looking  of  that  lovely  face.  Nay,"  concluded  the 
wretched  husband,  "  I  feel  as  though  I  should  die  over  again, 
if  I  could  call  to  mind  in  my  grave  how  you  were  taken  from 

me." 

Iroldo  became  dumb  for  anguish.     It  seemed  to  him  as  if  his 
very  heart  had  been  taken  out  of  his  breast.     Nor  was  Tisbina 


280  THE   SARACEN   FRIENDS. 


less  miserable.  She  was  as  pale  as  death,  and  could  hardly 
speak  to  him,  or  bear  to  look  at  him.  At  length  turning  her  eyes 
upon  him,  she  said,  "  And  do  you  believe  I  could  make  my  poor 
sorry  case  out  in  this  world  without  Iroldo  ?  Can  he  bear,  him- 
self, to  think  of  leaving  his  Tisbina  1  he  who  has  so  often  said, 
that  if  he  possessed  heaven  itself,  he  should  not  think  it  heaven 
without  her  ?  O  dearest  husband,  there  is  a  way  to  make  death 
not  bitter  to  either  of  us.  It  is  to  die  together.  I  must  only  exist 
long  enough  to  see  Prasildo  !  Death,  alas  !  is  in  that  thought ; 
but  the  same  death  will  release  us.  It  need  not  even  be  a  hard 
death,  saving  our  misery.  There  are  poisons  so  gentle  in  their 
deadliness,  that  we  need  but  faint  away  into  sleep,  and  so,  in  the 
course  of  a  few  hours,  be  delivered.  Our  misery  and  our  folly 
will  then  alike  be  ended." 

Iroldo  assenting,  clasped  his  wife  in  distraction ;  and  for  a  long 
time  they  remained  in  the  same  posture,  half  stifled  with  grief, 
and  bathing  one  another's  cheeks  with  their  tears.  Afterwards 
they  sent  quietly  for  the  poison  ;  and  the  apothecary  made  up  a 
preparation  in  a  cup,  without  asking  any  questions  ;  and  so  the 
husband  and  wife  took  it.  Iroldo  drank  first,  and  then  endeav- 
oured to  give  the  cup  to  his  wife,  uttering  not  a  word,  and  trem- 
bling in  every  limb  ;  not  because  he  was  afraid  of  death,  but 
because  he  could  not  bear  to  ask  her  to  share  it.  At  length, 
turning  away  his  face  and  looking  down,  he  held  the  cup  towards 
her,  and  she  took  it  with  a  chilled  heart  and  trembling  hand,  and 
drank  the  remainder  to  the  dregs.  Iroldo  then  covered  his  face 
and  head,  not  daring  to  see  her  depart  for  the  house  of  Prasildo ; 
and  Tisbina,  with  pangs  bitterer  than  death,  left  him  in  solitude. 

Tisbina,  accompanied  by  a  servant,  went  to  Prasildo,  who 
could  scarcely  believe  his  ears  when  he  heard  that  she  was  at  the 
door  requesting  to  speak  with  him.  He  hastened  down  to  shew 
her  all  honour,  leading  her  from  the  door  into  a  room  by  them- 
selves ;  and  when  he  found  her  in  tears,  addressed  her  in  the 
most  considerate  and  subdued,  yet  still  not  unhappy  manner, 
taking  her  confusion  for  bashfulness,  and  never  dreaming  what  a 
tragedy  had  been  meditated. 

Finding  at  length  that  her  grief  was  not  to  be  done  away,  he 
conjured  her  by  what  she  held  dearest  on  earth  to  let  him  know 


THE   SARACEN   FRIENDS.  281 

the  cause  of  it ;  adding,  that  he  could  still  die  for  her  sake,  if 
his  death  would  do  her  any  service.     Tisbina  spoke  at  these 
words ;   and  Prasildo  then  heard  what  he  did  not  wish  to  hear. 
"  I  am  in  your  hands,"  answered  she,  "  while  I  am  yet  alive.     I 
am  bound  to  my  word,  but  I  cannot  survive  the  dishonour  which 
it  costs  me,  nor,  above  all,  the  loss  of  the  husband  of  my  heart. 
You  also,  to  whose  eyes  I  have  been  so  welcome,  must  be  pre- 
pared for  my  disappearance  from  the  earth.     Had  my  affections 
not  belonged  to  another,  ungentle  would  have  been  my  heart  not 
to  have  loved  yourself,  who  are  so  capable  of  loving  ;  but  (as  you 
must  well  know)  to  love  two  at  once  is  neither  fitting  nor  in  one's 
power.     It  was  for  that  reason  I  never  loved  you,  baron ;  I  was 
only  touched  with  compassion   for  you  ;    and  hence  the  mise- 
ries of  us  all.     Before  this  day  closes,  I  shall  have  learnt  the 
taste  of  death."     And  without  further  preface  she  disclosed  to 
him  how  she  and  her  husband  had  taken  poison. 

Prasildo  was  struck  dumb  with  horror.  He  had  thought  his 
felicity  at  hand,  and  was  at  the  same  instant  to  behold  it  gone  for 
ever.  She  who  was  rooted  in  his  heart,  she  who  carried  his  life 
in  her  sweet  looks,  even  she  was  sitting  there  before  him,  already, 
so  to  speak,  dead. 

"  It  has  pleased  neither  Heaven  nor  you,  Tisbina,"  exclaimed 
the  unhappy  young  man,  "  to  put  my  best  feelings  to  the  proof. 
Often  have  two  lovers  perished  for  love ;  the  world  will  now  behold 
a  sacrifice  of  three.  Oh,  why  did  you  not  make  a  request  to  me 
in  your  turn,  and  ask  me  to  free  you  from  your  promise  ?  You 
say  you  took  pity  on  me  !  Alas,  cruel  one,  confess  that  you  have 
killed  yourself,  in  order  to  kill  me.  Yet  why  ?  Never  did  I 
think  of  giving  you  displeasure  ;  and  I  now  do  what  I  would  have 
done  at  any  time  to  prevent  it,  I  absolve  you  from  your  oath. 
Stay,  or  go  this  instant,  as  it  seems  best  to  you.'" 

A  stronger  feeling  than  compassion  moved  the  heart  of  Tisbina 
at  these  words.  "  This  indeed,"  replied  she,  "  I  feel  to  be  noble; 
and  truly  could  I  also  now  die  to  save  you.  But  life  is  flitting ; 
and  how  may  I  prove  my  regard  ?" 

Prasildo,  who  had  in  good  earnest  resolved  that  three  instead  of 
two  should  perish,  experienced  such  anguish  at  the  extraordinary 
position  in  which  he  found  all  three,  that  even  her  sweet  words 


282  THE   SARACEN   FRIENDS. 

came  but  dimly  to  his  ears.  He  stood  like  a  man  stupified  ;  then 
begged  of  her  to  give  him  but  one  kiss,  and  so  took  his  leave 
without  further  ado,  only  intimating  that  her  way  out  of  the 
house  lay  before  her.  As  he  spake,  he  removed  himself  from  her 
sight. 

Tisbina  reached  home.  She  found  her  husband  with  his  head 
covered  up  as  she  left  him ;  but  when  she  recounted  what  had 
passed,  and  the  courtesy  of  Prasildo,  and  how  he  had  exacted 
from  her  but  a  single  kiss,  Iroldo  got  up,  and  removed  the  cover- 
ing from  his  face,  and  then  clasping  his  hands,  and  raising  it  to 
heaven,  he  knelt  with  grateful  humility,  and  prayed  God  to  give 
pardon  to  himself,  and  reward  to  his  neighbour.  But  before  he 
had  ended,  Tisbina  sunk  on  the  floor  in  a  swoon.  Her  weaker 
frame  was  the  first  to  undergo  the  effects  of  what  she  had  taken. 
Iroldo  felt  icy  chill  to  see  her,  albeit  she  seemed  to  sleep  sweetly. 
Her  aspect  was  not  at  all  like  death.  He  taxed  Heaven  with 
cruelty  for  treating  two  loving  hearts  so  hardly,  and  cried  out 
against  Fortune,  and  life,  and  Love  itself. 

Nor  was  Prasildo  happier  in  his  chamber.  He  also  exclaimed 
against  the  bitter  tyrant  "  whom  men  call  Love ;"  and  protested, 
that  he  would  gladly  encounter  any  fate,  to  be  delivered  from  the 
worse  evils  of  his  false  and  cruel  ascendency. 

But  his  lamentations  were  interrupted.  The  apothecary  who 
sold  the  potion  to  the  husband  and  wife  was  at  the  door  below, 
requesting  to  speak  with  him.  The  servants  at  first  had  refused  to 
carry  the  message  ;  but  the  old  man  persisting,  and  saying  it  was 
a  matter  of  life  and  death,  entrance  for  him  into  his  master's 
chamber  was  obtained. 

"  Noble  sir,"  said  the  apothecary,  "  I  have  always  held  you  in 
love  and  reverence.  I  have  unfortunately  reason  to  fear  that 
somebody  is  desiring  your  death.  This  morning  a  handmaiden 
of  the  lady  Tisbina  applied  to  me  for  a  secret  poison  ;  and  just 
now  it  was  told  me,  that  the  lady  herself  had  been  at  this  house. 
I  am  old,  sir,  and  you  are  young ;  and  I  warn  you  against  the 
violence  and  jealousies  of  w^omankind.  Talk  of  their  flames  of 
love  !  Satan  himself  burn  them,  say  I,  for  they  are  fit  for  noth- 
ing better.  Do  not  be  too  much  alarmed,  however,  this  time  :  for 
in  truth  I  gave  the  young  woman  nothing  of  the  sort  that  she 


THE   SARACEN    FRIENDS.  283 

asked  for,  but  only  a  draught  so  innocent,  tliat  if  you  have  taken 
it,  it  will  cost  you  but  four  or  five  hours'  sleep.  So,  in  God's 
name,  give  up  the  whole  foolish  sex  ;  for  you  may  depend  on  it, 
that  in  this  city  of  ours  there  are  ninety-nine  wicked  ones  among 
them  to  one  good." 

You  may  guess  how  Prasildo's  heart  revived  at  these  words. 
Truly  might  he  be  compared  to  flowers  in  sunshine  after  rain  ;  he 
rejoiced  through  all  his  being,  and  displayed  again  a  cheerful 
countenance.  Hastily  thanking  the  old  man,  he  lost  no  time  in 
repairing  to  the  house  of  his  neighbours,  and  telling  them  of 
their  safety  :  and  you  may  guess  how  the  like  joy  was  theirs. 

But  behold  a  wonder  !  Iroldo  was  so  struck  with  the  gene- 
rosity of  his  neighbour's  conduct  throughout  the  whole  of  this 
extraordinary  atfair,  that  nothing  would  content  his  grateful 
though  ever-grieving  heart,  but  he  must  fairly  give  up  Tisbina 
after  all.  Prasildo,  to  do  him  justice,  resisted  the  proposition  as 
stoutly  as  he  could  ;  but  a  man's  powers  are  ill  seconded  by  an 
unwilling  heart ;  and  though  the  contest  was  long  and  handsome, 
as  is  customary  between  generous  natures,  the  husband  adhered 
firmly  to  his  intention.  In  short,  he  abruptly  quitted  the  city, 
declaring  that  he  would  never  again  gee  it,  and  so  left  his  wife  to 
the  lover.  And  I  must  add  (concluded  the  fair  lady  who  was 
telling  the  story  to  Rinaldo),  that  although  Tisbina  took  his  de- 
parture greatly  to  heart,  and  sometimes  felt  as  if  she  should  die 
at  the  thoughts  of  il,  yet  since  he  persisted  in  staying  away,  and 
there  appeared  no  chance  of  his  ever  doing  otherwise,  she  did, 
as  in  that  case  we  should  all  do,  we  at  least  that  are  young  and 
kind,  and  took  the  handsome  Prasildo  for  second  spouse.* 

*  "  Tisbina,"  says  Panizzi,  in  a  note  on  this  passage.  "  very  wisely  acted  like 
Emilia  (in  Chaucer),  who,  when  she  saw  she  could  not  marry  Arcita,  because 
he  was  killed,  thought  of  marrying  Palemone,  rather  than  'be  amayden  all  hire 
Ivf.'  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  although  she  regretted  very  much  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  even  fainted  away,  she  did  not,  however,  stand  on  ceremonies,  as  the 
poet  says  in  the  next  stanza,  but  yielded  immediately,  and  married  Prasildo. 
This,  at  first,  I  thought  to  be  somewhat  inconsistent;  but  on  consideration  I 
found  I  was  wrong.  Tisbina  was  wrong ;  because,  having  lost  Iroldo,  she  did 
not  know  what  Prasildo  would  do;  but  so  soon  as  the  latter  offered  to  fill  up  the 
place,  she  nobly  and  magnanimously  resigned  herself  to  her  fate." — Ut  sup., 
vol.  iii.  p.  336. 


1? 


^ 


284  THE   SARACEN   FRIENDS. 

It  might  be  thought  inconsistent  in  Tisbina,  notwithstanding  Mr.  Panizzi's 
pleasantry,  to  be  so  wilhng  to  take  another  husband,  after  having  poisoned  her- 
self for  the  first ;  but  she  seems  intended  by  the  poet  to  exhibit  a  character  of 
impulse  in  contradistinction  to  permanency  of  sentiment.  She  cannot  help 
shewing  pity  for  Prasildo ;  she  cannot  help  poisoning  herself  for  her  husband ; 
and  she  cannot  help  taking  his  friend,  when  she  has  lost  him.  Nor  must  it  be 
forgotten  that  the  husband  was  the  first  to  break  the  tie.  We  respect  him  more 
than  we  do  her,  because  he  was  capable  of  greater  self-denial ;  but  if  he  him- 
self preferred  his  friend  to  his  love,  we  can  hardly  blame  her  (custom  apart)  for 
following  the  example. 


THE   SARACEN   FRIENDS.  2S5 


.J] 

be 


PART    THE   SECOND 


The  conclusion  of  this  part  of  the  history  of  Iroldo  and  Pra- 
jildo  was  scarcely  out  of  the  lady's  mouth,  when  a  tremendous 
i^oice  was  heard  among  the  trees,  and  Rinaldo  found  himself  con- 
fronting a  giant  of  a  frightful  aspect,  who  with  a  griffin  on  each 
ide  of  him  was  guarding  a  cavern  that  contained  the  enchanted 
horse  which  had  belonged  to  the  brother  of  Angelica.  A  combat 
ensued  ;  and  after  winning  the  horse,  and  subsequently  losing 
the  company  of  the  lady,  the  Paladin,  in  the  course  of  his  adven- 
ures,  came  upon  a  knight  who  lay  lamenting  in  a  green  place  by 
a  fountain.  The  knight  heeding  nothing  but  his  grief,  did  not 
perceive  the  new  comer,  who  for  some  time  remained  looking  at 
him  in  silence,  till,  desirous  to  know  the  cause  of  his  sorrow,  he 
dismounted  from  his  horse,  and  courteously  begged  to  be  informed 
of  it.  The  stranger  in  his  turn  looked  a  little  while  in  silence  at 
Rinaldo,  and  then  told  him  he  had  resolved  to  die,  in  order  to  be 
rid  of  a  life  of  misery.  And  yet,  he  added,  it  was  not  his  own 
lot  which  grieved  him,  so  much  as  that  of  a  noble  friend  who 
would  die  at  the  same  time,  and  who  had  nobody  to  help  him. 

The  knight,  who  was  no  other  than  Tisbina's  husband  Iroldo, 
then  briefly  related  the  events  which  the  reader  has  heard,  and 
proceeded  to  state  how  he  had  traversed  the  world  ever  since  for 
two  years,  when  it  was  his  misfortune  to  arrive  in  the  territories 
of  the  enchantress  Falerina,  whose  custom  it  was  to  detain  for- 
eigners in  prison,  and  daily  give  a  couple  of  them  (a  lady  and  a 
cavalier)  for  food  to  a  serpent  which  kept  the  entrance  of  her 
enchanted  garden.     To  this  serpent  he  himself  was  destined  to 

5* 


286  THE   SARACEN   FRIENDS. 

be  sacrificed,  when  Prasildo,  the  possessor  of  his  wife  Tisbina, 
hearing  of  his  peril,  set  out  instantly  from  Babylon,  and  rode 
night  and  day  till  he  came  to  the  abode  of  the  enchantress,  deter- 
mined that  nothing  should  hinder  him  from  doing  his  utmost  to 
save  the  life  of  a  friend  so  generous.  Save  it  he  did,  and  that  by 
a  generosity  no  less  devoted  ;  for  having  attempted  in  vain  to 
bribe  the  keeper  of  the  prison,  he  succeeded  in  prevailing  on  the 
man  to  let  him  substitute  himself  for  his  friend  ;  and  he  was  that 
very  day,  perhaps  that  very  moment,  preparing  for  the  dreadful  • 
death  to  which  he  would  speedily  be  brought. 

"  I  will  not  survive  such  a  friend,"  concluded  Iroldo.  "  I 
know  I  shall  contend  with  his  warders  to  no  purpose  ;  but  let  the 
wretches  come,  if  they  will,  by  thousands  ;  I  shall  fight  them  to 
the  last  gasp.  One  comfort  in  death,  one  joy  I  shall  at  all  events 
experience.  I  shall  be  with  Prasildo  in  the  other  world.  And 
yet  when  I  think  what  sort  of  death  he  must  endure,  even  the 
release  from  my  own  miseries  afflicts  me,  since  it  will  not  pre- 
vent him  from  undergoing  that  horror." 

The  Paladin  shed  tears  to  hear  of  a  case  so  piteous  and  affec- 
tionate, and  in  a  tone  of  encouragement  offered  his  services 
towards  the  rescue  of  his  friend.  Iroldo  looked  at  him  in  aston-i 
ishment,  but  sighed  and  said,  "  Ah,  sir,  I  thank  you  with  all  my 
heart,  and  you  are  doubtless  a  most  noble  cavalier,  to  be  so  fear- 
less and  good-hearted  ;  but  what  right  have  I  to  bring  you  to 
destruction  for  no  reason  and  to  no  purpose  ?  There  is  not  a  man 
on  earth  but  Orlando  himself,  or  his  cousin  Rinaldo,  who  could 
possibly  do  us  any  good  ;  and  so  I  beg  you  to  accept  my  thanks 
and  depart  in  safety,  and  may  God  reward  you." 

"  It  is  true,"  replied  the  Paladin,  "  I  am  not  Orlando  ;  and  yet, 
for  all  that,  I  doubt  not  to  be  able  to  effect  what  I  propose.  Nor 
do  I  offer  my  assistance  out  of  desire  of  glory,  or  of  thanks,  or 
return  of  any  kind  ;  except  indeed,  that  if  two  such  unparalleled 
friends  could  admit  me  to  be  a  third,  I  should  hold  myself  a  happy 
man.  What !  you  have  given  up  the  woman  of  your  heart,  and 
deprived  yourself  of  all  joy  and  comfort ;  and  your  friend,  on 
the  other  hand,  has  become  a  prisoner  and  devoted  to  death,  for 
your  sake ;  and  can  I  be  expected  to  leave  two  such  friends  in  a 


THE  SARACEN  FRIENDS.  287 


jeopardy  so  monstrous,  and  not  do  all  in  my  power  to  save  them  ? 
I  would  rather  die  first  myself,  and  on  your  own  principle  ;  I 
mean,  in  order  to  go  with  you  into  a  better  world." 

While  they  were  talking  in  this  manner,  a  great  ill-looking 
rabble,  upwards  of  a  thousand  strong,  made  their  appearance, 
carrying  a  banner,  and  bringing  forth  two  prisoners  to  die.  The 
wretches  were  armed  after  their  disorderly  fashion ;  and  the 
prisoners  each  tied  upon  a  horse.  One  of  these  hapless  persons 
too  surely  was  Prasildo ;  and  the  other  turned  out  to  be  the  dam- 
sel N\  ho  had  told  Rinaldo  the  story  of  the  friends.  Having  been 
deprived  of  the  Paladin's  assistance,  her  subsequent  misadven- 
tures had  brought  her  to  this  terrible  pass.  The  moment  Rinaldo 
beheld  her,  he  leaped  on  his  horse,  and  dashed  among  the  villains. 
The  sight  of  such  an  onset  was  enough  for  their  cowardly  hearts. 
The  whole  posse  fled  before  him  with  precipitation,  all  except  the 
leader,  who  was  a  villain  of  gigantic  strength ;  and  him  the  Pala- 
din, at  one  blow,  clove  through  the  middle.  Iroldo  could  not 
speak  for  joy,  as  he  hastened  to  release  Prasildo.  He  was  forced 
to  give  him  tears  instead  of  words.  But  when  speech  at  length 
became  possible,  the  two  friends,  fervently  and  with  a  religious 
awe,  declared  that  their  deliverer  must  have  been  divine  and  not 
human,  so  tremendous  was  the  death-blow  he  had  given  the  ruf- 
fian, and  such  winged  and  contemptuous  slaughter  he  had  dealt 
among  the  fugitives.  By  the  time  he  returned  from  the  pursuit, 
their  astonishment  had  risen  to  such  a  pitch,  that  they  fell  on 
their  knees  and  worshipped  him  for  the  Prophet  of  the  Saracens, 
not  believing  such  prowess  possible  to  humanity,  and  devoutly 
thanking  him  for  the  mercy  he  had  shewn  them  in  coming  thus 
visibly  from  heaven.  Rinaldo  for  the  moment  was  not  a  little 
disturbed  at  this  sally  of  enthusiasm  ;  but  the  singular  good  faith 
and  simplicity  of  it  restored  him  to  himself;  and  with  a  smile  be- 
tween lovingness  and  humility  he  begged  them  to  lay  aside  all 
such  fancies,  and  know  him  for  a  man  like  themselves.  He 
then  disclosed  himself  for  the  Rinaldo  of  whom  they  had  spoken, 
and  made  such  an  impression  on  them  with  his  piety,  and  his  at- 
tributing  what  had  appeared  a  superhuman  valour  to  nothing  but 
his  belief  in  the  Christian  religion,  that  the  transported  friends 


288  THE   SARACEN  FRIENDS. 

became  converts  on  the  spot,  and  accompanied  him  thenceforth 
as  the  most  faithful  of  his  knights. 


The  story  tells  us  nothing  fiirther  of  Tisbina,  though  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  Boiardo  meant  to  give  us  the  conclusion  of  her  share  in  it ;  for  the  two 
knights  take  an  active  part  in  the  adventures  of  their  new  friend  Rinaldo. 
Perhaps,  however,  the  discontinuance  of  the  poem  itself  was  lucky  for  the  au- 
thor, as  far  as  this  episode  was  concerned ;  for  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  in  what 
maimer  he  would  have  wound  it  up  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  reader. 


SEEING  AND  BELIEVING. 


Argument. 

A  lady  has  two  suitors,  a  young  and  an  old  one,  the  latter  of  whom  wins  her 
against  her  inclinations  by  practising  the  artifice  of  Hippomanes  in  his  race  with 
Atalanta.  Being  very  jealous,  he  locks  her  up  in  a  tower;  and  the  youth,  who 
continued  to  be  her  lover,  makes  a  subterraneous  passage  to  it ;  and  pretending 
to  have  married  her  sister,  invites  the  old  man  to  his  house,  and  introduces  his 
own  wife  to  him  as  the  bride.  The  husband,  deceived,  but  still  jealous,  facili- 
tates their  departure  out  of  the  country,  and  returns  to  his  tower  to  find  liimself 
deserted. 

This  story,  like  that  of  the  Saracen  Friends,  is  told  by  a  damsel  to  a  knight 
while  riding  in  his  company ;  with  this  difference,  that  she  is  the  heroine  of  it 
herself  She  is  a  damsel  of  a  nature  still  lighter  than  the  former;  and  the 
reader's  sympathy  with  the  trouble  she  brings  on  herself^  and  the  way  she  gets 
out  of  it,  will  be  modified  accordingly.  On  the  other  hand,  nobody  can  respect 
the  foolish  old  man  with  his  unwarrantable  marriage ;  and  the  moral  of  Boiardo's 
story  is  still  useful  for  these  "  enlightened  times,"  though  conveyed  with  an  air 
of  levity. 

In  addition  to  the  classics,  the  poet  has  been  to  the  Norman  fablers  for  his 
story.  The  subterranean  passage  has  been  more  than  once  repeated  in  ro- 
mance ;  and  the  closing  incident,  the  assistance  given  by  the  husband  to  his 
^vife's  elopement,  has  been  imitated  in  the  farce  of  Lionel  and  Clarissa. 


SEEING  AND  BELIEVING. 


My  father  (said  the  damsel)  is  King  of  the  Distant  Islands, 
where  the  treasure  of  the  earth  is  collected.  Never  was  greater 
wealth  known,  and  I  was  heiress  of  it  all. 

But  it  is  impossible  to  foresee  what  is  most  to  be  desired  for  us 
in  this  world.  I  was  a  king's  daughter,  I  was  rich,  I  was  hand- 
some, I  was  lively  ;  and  yet  to  all  those  advantages  I  owed  my 
ill- fortune. 

Among  other  suitors  for  my  hand  there  came  two  on  the  same 
day,  one  of  whom  was  a  youth  named  Ordauro,  handsome  from 
head  to  foot ;  the  other  an  old  man  of  seventy,  whose  name  was 
Folderico.  Both  were  rich  and  of  noble  birth  ;  but  the  greybeard 
was  counted  extremely  wise,  and  of  a  foresight  more  than  human. 
As  I  did  not  feel  in  want  of  his  foresight,  the  youth  was  far  more 
to  my  taste  ;  and  accordingly  I  listened  to  him  with  perfect  good- 
will, and  gave  the  wise  man  no  sort  of  encouragement. 

I  was  not  at  liberty,  however,  to  determine  the  matter ;  my 
father  had  a  voice  in  it ;  so,  fearing  what  he  would  advise,  I 
thought  to  secure  a  good  result  by  cunning  and  management.  It 
is  an  old  observation,  that  the  craft  of  a  woman  exceeds  all  other 
craft.  Indeed,  it  is  Solomon's  own  saying.  But  now-a-days  peo- 
ple laugh  at  it ;  and  I  found  to  my  cost  that  the  laugh  is  just.  I 
requested  my  father  to  proclaim,  first,  that  nobody  should  have 
me  in  marriage  who  did  not  surpass  me  in  swiftness  (for  I  was  a 
damsel  of  a  mighty  agility)  ;  and  secondly,  that  he  who  did  sur- 
pass me  should  be  my  husband.  He  consented,  and  I  thought 
my  happiness  secure.  You  must  know,  I  have  run  down  a  bird, 
and  caught  it  with  my  own  hand. 

Well,  both  my  suitors  came  to  the  race ;  the  youth  on  a  large 


292  SEEING  AND  BELIEVING. 


war-horse,  trapped  with  gold,  which  curvetted  in  a  prodigious 
manner,  and  seemed  impatient  for  a  gallop  ;  the  old  man  on  a 
mule,  carrying  a  great  bag  at  his  side,  and  looking  already  tired 
out..  They  dismounted  on  the  place  chosen  for  the  trial,  which 
was  a  meadow.  It  was  encircled  by  a  world  of  spectators  ;  and 
the  greybeard  and  myself  (for  his  age  gave  him  the  first  chance) 
only  waited  for  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  to  set  off. 

I  held  my  competitor  in  such  contempt,  that  I  let  him  get  the 
start  of  me,  on  purpose  to  make  him  ridiculous  ;  but  I  was  not 
prepared  for  his  pulling  a  golden  apple  out  of  his  bag,  and  throw- 
ing it  as  far  as  he  could  in  a  direction  different  from  that  of  the 
goal.  The  sight  of  a  curiosity  so  tempting  was  too  much  for  my 
prudence  ;  and  it  rolled  away  so  roundly,  and  to  such  a  distance, 
that  I  lost  more  time  in  reaching  it  than  I  looked  for.  Before  I 
overtook  the  old  gentleman,  he  threw  another  apple,  and  this  again 
led  me  a  chase  after  it.  In  short,  I  blush  to  say,  that,  resolved  as 
I  was  to  be  tempted  no  further,  seeing  that  the  end  of  our  course 
was  now  at  hand,  and  my  marriage  with  an  old  man  instead  of  a 
young  man  was  out  of  the  question,  he  seduced  me  to  give  chase 
to  a  third  apple,  and  fairly  reached  the  goal  before  me.  I  wept 
for  rage  and  disgust,  and  meditated  every  species  of  unconjugal 
treatment  of  the  old  fox.  What  right  had  he  to  marry  such  a 
child  as  I  was  ?  I  asked  myself  the  question  at  the  time  ;  I  asked 
it  a  thousand  times  afterwards  ;  and  I  must  confess,  that  the  more 
I  have  tormented  him,  the  more  the  retaliation  delights  me. 

However,  it  was  of  no  use  at  the  moment.  The  old  wretch 
bore  me  off  to  his  domains  with  an  ostentatious  triumph ;  and 
then,  his  jealousy  misgiving  him,  he  shut  me  up  in  a  castle  on  a 
rock,  where  he  endeavoured  from  that  day  forth  to  keep  me  from 
the  sight  of  living  being.  You  may  judge  what  sort  of  castle  it 
was  by  its  name — Altamura  (lofty  wall).  It  overlooked  a  desert  I 
on  three  sides,  and  the  sea  on  the  fourth  ;  and  a  man  might  as 
well  have  flown  as  endeavoured  to  scale  it.  There  was  but  one 
path  up  to  the  entrance,  very  steep  and  difficult ;  and  when  you 
were  there,  you  must  have  pierced  outwork  afler  outwork,  and 
picked  the  lock  of  gate  after  gate.  So  there  sat  I  in  this  delicious 
retreat,  hopeless,  and  bursting  with  rage.  I  called  upon  death 
day  and  night,  as  my  only  refuge.     I  had  no  comfort  but  in  see- 


SEEING   AND   BELIEVING.  293 

ing  my  keeper  mad  with  jealousy,  even  in  that  desolate  spot.     I 
think  he  was  jealous  of  the  very  flies. 

JMy  handsome  youth,  Ordauro,  however,  had  not  forgotten  me; 
no,  nor  even  given  me  up.  Luckily  he  was  not  only  very  clever, 
but  rich  besides  ;  without  which,  to  be  sure^  his  brains  would  not 
have  availed  him  a  pin.  What  does  he  do,  therefore,  but  take  a 
house  in  the  neighbourhood  on  the  sea-shore ;  and  while  my  tor- 
mentor, in  alarm  and  horror,  watches  every  movement,  and  thinks 
him  coming  if  he  sees  a  cloud  or  a  bird,  Ordauro  sets  people  se- 
cretly to  work  night  and  day,  and  makes  a  subterraneous  passage 
up  to  the  very  tower  ! 

Guess  what  I  felt  when  I  saw  him  enter !  Assuredly  I  did  not 
shew  him  the  face  which  I  shewed  Folderico.  I  die  with  joy 
this  moment  to  think  of  my  delight.  As  soon  as  we  could  dis- 
course of  any  thing  but  our  meeting,  Ordauro  concerted  measures 
for  my  escape ;  and  the  greatest  difficulty  being  surmounted  by 
the  subterraneous  passage,  they  at  last  succeeded.  But  our  ene- 
my gave  us  a  frightful  degree  of  trouble. 

There  was  no  end  of  the  old  man's  pryings,  peepings,  and  pre- 
cautions. He  left  me  as  little  as  possible  by  myself;  and  he  had 
all  the  coast  thereabouts  at  his  command,  together  with  the  few 
boats  that  ever  touched  it. 

Ordauro,  however^  did  a  thing  at  once  the  most  bold  and  the 
most  ingenious.  He  gave  out  that  he  was  married ;  and  inviting 
my  husband  to  dinner,  who  had  heard  the  news  with  transport, 
presented  me,  to  his  astonished  eyes,  for  the  bride.  The  old  man 
looked  as  if  he  would  have  died  for  rage  and  misery. 

"  Horrible  villain  !"  cried  he,  "  what  is  this  ?" 

Ordauro  professed  astonishment  in  his  turn. 

"  What !"  asked  he  ;  "  do  you  not  know  that  the  princess, 
your  lady's  sister,  is  wonderfully  like  her,  and  that  she  has  done 
me  the  honour  of  becoming  my  wife  ?  I  invited  you  in  order  to 
do  honour  to  yourself,  and  so  bring  the  good  families  together." 

''  Detestable  falsehood  !"  cried  Folderico.  "  Do  you  think  I'm 
blind,  or  a  born  idiot  ?  But  I'll  see  to  this  business  directly  ; 
and  terrible  shall  be  my  revenge." 

So  saying,  he  flung  out,  and  hastened,  as  fast  as  age  would  let 
him,  to  the  room  in  the  tower,  where  he  expected  to  find  me  not. 


294  SEEING  AND  BELIEVING. 

But  there  he  did  find  me : — there  was  I,  sitting  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  with  my  hand  on  my  cheek,  and  full  of  my  old  mel- 
ancholy. 

"  God  preserve  me  !"  exclaimed  he  ;  "  this  is  astonishing  in- 
deed !  Never  could  I  have  dreamt  that  one  sister  could  be  so 
like  another !  But  is  it  so,  or  is  it  not  ?  I  have  terrible  sus- 
picions. It  is  impossible  to  believe  it.  Tell  me  truly,"  he  con- 
tinued ;  "  answer  me  on  the  faith  of  a  daring  woman,  and  you 
shall  get  no  hurt  by  it.  Has  any  one  opened  the  portals  for  you 
to-day  ?  Who  was  it  ?  How  did  you  get  out  ?  Tell  me  the 
truth,  and  you  shall  not  suffer  for  it ;  but  deceive  me,  and  there 
is  no  punishment  that  you  may  not  look  for." 

It  is  needless  to  say  how  I  vowed  and  protested  that  I  had 
never  stirred ;  that  it  was  quite  impossible ;  that  I  could  not  have 
done  it  if  I  would,  &c.  I  took  all  the  saints  to  witness  to  my 
veracity,  and  swore  I  had  never  seen  the  outside  of  his  tremen- 
dous castle. 

The  monster  had  nothing  to  say  to  this ;  but  I  saw  what  he 
meant  to  do — I  saw  that  he  would  return  instantly  to  the  house 
of  Ordauro,  and  ascertain  if  the  bride  was  there.  Accordingly, 
the  moment  he  turned  the  key  on  me,  I  flew  down  the  subterra- 
neous passage,  tossed  on  my  new  clothes  like  lightning,  and  sat 
in  my  lover's  house  as  before,  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  panting 
old  gentleman. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  he,  as  soon  as  he  set  eyes  upon  me, 
"  never  in  all  my  life — no — I  must  allow  it  to  be  impossible — 
never  can  my  wife  at  home  be  the  lady  sitting  here." 

From  that  day  forth  the  old  man,  whenever  he  saw  me  in  Or- 
dauro's  house,  treated  me  as  if  I  were  indeed  his  sister-in-law, 
though  he  never  had  the  heart  to  bring  the  two  wives  together,  for 
fear  of  old  recollections.  Nevertheless,  this  state  of  things  was 
still  very  perilous  ;  and  my  new  husband  and  myself  lost  no  time 
in  considering  how  we  should  put  an  end  to  it  by  leaving  the 
country.  Ordauro  resorted,  as  before,  to  a  bold  expedient.  He 
told  Folderico  that  the  air  of  the  sea-coast  disagreed  with  him ; 
and  the  old  man,  whose  delight  at  getting  rid  of  his  neighbour 
helped  to  blind  him  to  the  deceit,  not  only  expedited  the  move- 
ment, but  offered  to  see  him  part  of  the  way  on  his  journey ! 


SEEING  AND   BELIEVING.  295 


The  ofTer  was  accepted.  Six  miles  he  rode  forth  with  us  the 
stupid  old  man  ;  and  then,  takinor  his  leave,  to  return  home',  we 
pushed  our  horses  like  lightning,  and  so  left  him  to  tear  his  hair 
and  his  old  beard  with  cries  and  curses,  as  soon  as  he  opened  the 
door  of  his  tower. 


ARIOSTO: 


CfTritical  Notice  of  l)is  £ife  anh  <3cnim. 


CRITICAL    NOTICE 


OF 


ARIOSTO'S  LIFE   AND   GENIUS.* 


The  congenial  spirits  of  Piilci  and  Boiardo  may  be  said  to 
have  attained  to  their  height  in  the  person  of  Ariosto,  upon  the 
principle  of  a  transmigration  of  souls,  or  after  the  fashion  of  that 
hero  in  romance,  who  was  heir  to  the  bodily  strengths  of  all  wliom 
he  conquered. 

Lodovico  Giovanni  Ariosto  was  born  on  the  8th  of  September, 
1474,  in  the  fortress  at  Reggio,  in  Lombardy,  and  was  the  son  of 
Niccolo  Ariosto,  captain  of  that  citadel  (as  Boiardo  had  been), 
and  Daria  Maleguzzi,  whose  family  still  exists.  The  race  was 
transplanted  from  Bologna  in  the  century  previous,  when  Obizzo 
the  Third  of  Este,  Marquess  of  Ferrara,  married  a  lady  belong- 
ing to  it,  whose  Christian  name  was  Lippa.  Niccolo  Ariosto, 
besides  holding  the  same  office  as  Boiardo  had  done,  at  Modena 
as  well  as  at  Reggio,  was  master  of  the  household  to  his  two  suc- 
cessive patrons,  the  Dukes  Borso  and  Ercole.     He  was  also  em- 

*  The  materials  for  this  notice  have  been  chiefly  collected  from  the  poet's  own 
writings  (rich  in  autobiographical  intimation)  and  from  his  latest  editor  Panizzi. 
I  was  unable  to  see  this  writer's  principal  authority,  Baruflaldi,  till  I  corrected 
the  proofs  and  the  press  was  waiting ;  otherwise  I  might  have  added  two  or 
three  more  particulars,  not,  however,  of  any  great  consequence.  Panizzi  is,  as 
usual,  copious  and  to  the  purpose ;  and  has,  for  the  first  time  I  believe,  critically 
proved  the  regularity  and  connectedness  of  Ariosto's  plots,  as  well  as  the  hol- 
lowness  of  the  pretensions  of  the  house  of  Este  to  be  considered  patrons  of 
literature.  It  is  only  a  pity  that  his  Life  of  Ariosto  is  not  better  arranged.  I 
have,  of  course,  drawn  my  own  conclusions  respecting  particulars,  and  some- 
times have  thought  I  had  reason  to  differ  with  those  who  have  preceded  me ;  but 
not,  I  hope,  with  a  presumption  unbecoming  a  foreigner. 


300  ARIOSTO. 


ployed,  like  him,  in  diplomacy ;  and  was  made  a  count  by  the 
Emperor  Frederick  the  Third,  though  not,  it  seems,  with  re- 
mainder to  his  heirs. 

Lodovico  was  the  eldest  of  ten  children,  five  sons  and  five 
daughters.  During  his  boyhood,  theatrical  entertainments  were 
in  great  vogue  at  court,  as  we  have  seen  in  the  life  of  Boiardo ; 
and  at  the  age  of  twelve,  a  year  after  the  decease  of  that  poet 
(who  must  have  been  well  known  to  him,  and  probably  encour- 
aged his  attempts),  his  successor  is  understood  to  have  dramatised, 
after  his  infant  fashion,  the  story  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  and  to 
have  got  his  brothers  and  sisters  to  perform  it.  Panizzi  doubts 
the  possibility  of  these  precocious  private  theatricals ;  but  con- 
sidering what  is  called  "  writing"  on  the  part  of  children,  and 
that  only  one  other  performer  was  required  in  the  piece,  or  at 
best  a  third  for  the  lion  (which  some  little  brother  might  have 
"  roared  like  any  sucking-dove"),  I  cannot  see  good  reason  for 
disbelieving  the  story.  Pope  was  not  twelve  years  old  when  he 
turned  the  siege  of  Troy  into  a  play,  and  got  his  school- fellows  to 
perform  it,  the  part  of  Ajax  being  given  to  the  gardener.  Man  is 
a  theatrical  animal  [^wov  fiijxriTiK6v^,  and  the  instinct  is  developed  at 
a  very  early  period,  as  almost  every  family  can  witness  that  has 
taken  its  children  to  the  "  playhouse." 

At  fifteen  the  young  poet,  like  so  many  others  of  his  class,  was 
consigned  to  the  study  of  the  law,  and  took  a  great  dislike  to  it. 
The  extreme  mobility  of  his  nature,  and  the  wish  to  please  his 
father,  appear  to  have  made  him  enter  on  it  willingly  enough 
in  the  first  instance  ;*  but  as  soon  as  he  betrayed  symptoms  of 
disgust,  Niccolo,  whose  affairs  were  in  a  bad  way,  drove  him 
back  to  it  with  a  vehemence  which  must  have  made  bad  worse, f 
At  the  expiration  of  five  years  he  was  allowed  to  give  it  up. 


*  See  in  his  Latin  poems  the  lines  beginning, 

"  Hffic  me  verbosas  suasit  perdiscere  leges." 

De  Diversis  Amoribus. 
t  "  Mio  padre  mi  caccib  con  spiedi  e  lancie,"  &c. 

Satira  vi. 

There  is  some  appearance  of  contradiction  in  this  passage  and  the  one  referred 
to  in  the  preceding  note ;  but  I  tliink  the  conclusion  in  the  text  the  probable 
one,  and  that  he  was  not  compelled  to  study  the  law  in  the  first  instance.    He 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  301 


There  is  reason  to  believe  tliat  Ariosto  was  "  theatricalising" 
during  no  little  portion  of  this  time  ;  for,  in  his  nineteenth  year, 
he  is  understood  to  have  been  taken  by  Duke  Ercole  to  Pavia 
and  to  Milan,  either  as  a  writer  or  performer  of  comedies,  proba- 
bly both,  since  the  courtiers  and  ducal  family  themselves  occa- 
sionally appeared  on  the  stage  ;  and  one  of  the  poet's  brothers 
mentions  his  having  frequently  seen  him  dressed  in  character.* 

On  being  delivered  from  the  study  of  the  law,  the  young  poet 
appears  to  have  led  a  cheerful  and  unrestrained  life  for  the  next 
four  or  five  years.  He  wrote,  or  began  to  write,  the  comedy  of 
the  Cassaria  ;  probably  meditated  some  poem  in  the  style  of 
Boiardo^  then  in  the  height  of  his  fame  ;  and  he  cultivated  the 
Latin  language,  and  intended  to  learn  Greek,  but  delayed,  and 
unfortunately  missed  it  in  consequence  of  losing  his  tutor.  Some 
of  his  happiest  days  were  passed  at  a  villa,  still  possessed  by  the 
Maleguzzi  family,  called  La  Mauriziana,  two  miles  from  Reggio. 
Twenty-five  years  afterwards  he  called  to  mind,  with  sighs,  the 
pleasant  spots  there  which  used  to  invite  him  to  write  verses ; 
the  garden,  the  little  river,  the  mill,  the  trees  by  the  water-side, 
and  all  the  other  shady  places  in  which  he  enjoyed  himself  during 
that  sweet  season  of  his  life  "  betwixt  April  and  May."f  To 
complete  his  happiness,  he  had  a  friend  and  cousin,  Pandolfo 
Ariosto,  who  loved  every  thing  that  he  loved,  and  for  whom  he 
augured  a  brilliant  reputation. 

But  a  dismal  cloud  was  approaching.  In  his  twenty-first  year 
he  lost  his  father,  and  found  a  large  family  left  on  his  hands  in 
narrow  circumstances.  The  charge  was  at  first  so  heavy,  espe- 
cially when  aggravated  by  the  death  of  Pandolfo,  that  he  tells  us 
he  wished  to  die.  He  took  to  it  manfully,  however,  in  spite  of 
these  fits  of  gloom  ;  and  he  lived  to  see  his  admirable  efforts 
rewarded  ;  his  brotliers  enabled  to  seek  their  fortunes,  and  his 
sisters  properly  taken  care  of.  Two  of  them,  it  seems,  had  be- 
come nuns.  A  third  married  ;  and  a  fourth  remained  long  in  his 
house.     It  is  not  known  what  became  of  the  fifth. 

* 

sjieaks  more  than  once  of  his  father's  memory  with  great  tenderness,  particularly 
in  the  lines  on  his  death,  entitled  Dt  Nkolao  Areosto. 

*  His  brother  Gabriel  expressly  mentions  it  in  his  prologue  to  the  Scholastica. 

t  "  G\k  mi  fur  dolci  inviti,"  &c. — Satira  v. 

TART  11.  6 


302  ARIOSTO. 


In  these  family-matters  the  anxious  son  and  brother  was  occu- 
pied for  three  or  four  years,  not,  however,  without  jecreating 
himself  with  his  verses,  Latin  and  Italian,  and  recording  his 
admiration  of  a  number  of  goddesses  of  his  youth.  He  men- 
tions, in  particular,  one  of  the  name  of  Lydia,  who  kept  him 
often  from  "  his  dear  mother  and  household,"  and  who  is  proba- 
bly represented  by  the  princess  of  the  same  name  in  the  Orlando, 
punished  in  the  smoke  of  Tartarus  for  being  a  jilt  and  coquette.* 
His  friend  Bembo,  afterwards  the  celebrated  cardinal,  recommend- 
ed him  to  be  blind  to  such  little  immaterial  points  as  ladies'  infi- 
delities. But  he  is  shocked  at  the  advice.  He  was  far  more  of 
Othello's  opinion  than  Congreve's  in  such  matters ;  and  declared, 
that  he  would  not  have  shared  his  mistress's  good-will  with  Jupi- 
ter himself.f 

Towards  the  year  1504,  the  poet  entered  the  service  of  the 
unworthy  prince.  Cardinal  Ippolito  of  Este,  brother  of  the  new 
Duke  of  Ferrara,  Alfonso  the  First.  His  eminence,  who  had 
been  made  a  prince  of  the  church  at  thirteen  years  of  age  by  the 
infamous  Alexander  the  Sixth  (Borgia),  was  at  this  period  little 
more  than  one-and -twenty ;  but  he  took  an  active  part  in  the 
duke's  affairs,  both  civil  and  military,  and  is  said  to  have  made 
himself  conspicuous  in  his  father's  lifetime  for  his  vices  and  bru- 
tality. He  is  charged  with  having  ordered  a  papal  messenger  to 
be  severely  beaten  for  bringing  him  some  unpleasant  despatches : 
which  so  exasperated  his  unfortunate  parent,  that  he  was  exiled 
to  Mantua ;  and  the  marquess  of  that  city,  his  brother-in-law,  was 
obliged  to  come  to  Ferrara  to  obtain  his  pardon.  But  this  was  a 
trifle  compared  with  what  he  is  accused  of  having  done  to  one  of 
his  brothers.  A  female  of  their  acquaintance,  in  answer  to  a 
speech  made  her  by  the  reverend  gallant,  had  been  so  unlucky 
as  to  say  that  she  preferred  his  brother  Giulio's  eyes  to  his  emi- 
nence's  whole  body  :  upon  which  the  monstrous  villain  hired  two 

*  See,  in  the  present  volume,  the  beginning  of  Astolfo's  Journey  to  the  Moon. 
t  "  Me  potius  fugiat,  nullis  molHta  querelis, 

Dum  simulet  reliquos  Lydia  dura  procos. 
Parte  carere  omni  malo,  quam  admittere  qucraquam 
In  partem.     Cupiat  Juppiter  ipse,  negem." 

Ad  Petrum  Bembum. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  303 


ruffians  to  put  out  his  brother's  eyes ;  some  say,  was  present  at 
the  attempt.  Attempt  only  it  fortunately  turned  out  to  be,  at 
least  in  part ;  the  opinion  being,  that  the  sight  of  one  of  the  eyes 
was  preserved.* 

Party-spirit-  l^^s  so  much  to  do  with  stories  of  princes,  and 
princes  are  so  little  inr  a  condition  to  notice  them,  that,  on  the 
principle  of  not  condemning  a  man  till  he  has  been  heard  in  his 
defence,  an  honest  biographer  would  be  loath  to  credit  these  hor- 
rors of  Cardinal  Ippolito,  did  not  the  violent  nature  of  the  times, 
and  the  general  character  of  the  man,  even  with  his  defenders, 
incline  him  to  do  so.  His  being  a  soldier  rather  than  a  church- 
man was  a  fault  of  the  age,  perhaps  a  credit  to  the  man,  for  he 
appears  to  have  had  abilities  for  war,  and  it  was  no  crime  of  his 
if  he  was  put  into  the  church  when  a  boy.  But  his  conduct  to 
Ariosto  shewed  him  coarse  and  selfish ;  and  those  who  say  all 
they  can  for  him  admit  that  he  was  proud  and  revengeful,  and 
that  nobody  regretted  him  when  he  died.  He  is  said  to  have  had 
a  taste  for  mathematics,  as  his  brother  had  for  mechanics.  The 
truth  seems  to  be,  that  he  and  the  duke,  who  lived  in  troubled 
times,  and  had  to  exert  all  their  strength  to  hinder  Ferrara  from 
becoming  a  prey  to  the  court  of  Rome,  were  clever,  harsh  men, 
of  no  grace  or  elevation  of  character,  and  with  no  taste  but  for 
war ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  their  connexion  with  Ariosto,  no- 
body would  have  heard  of  them,  except  while  perusing  the  annals 
of  the  time.  Ippolito  might  have  been,  and  probably  was,  the 
ruffian  which  the  anecdote  of  his  brother  Giulio  represents  him ; 
but  the  world  would  have  heard  little  of  the  villany,  had  he  not 
treated  a  poet  with  contempt. 

The  admirers  of  our  author  may  wonder  how  he  could  become 
the  servant  of  such  a  man,  much  more  how  he  could  praise  him 
as  he  did  in  the  great  work  which  he  was  soon  to  begin  writing. 


*  Panizzi,  on  the  authority  of  Guicciardini  and  others,  Giulio  and  another 
brother  (Fcrrante)  afterwards  conspired  against  Alfonso  and  Ippolito,  and,  on 
the  failure  of  their  enterprise,  were  sentenced  to  be  imprisoned  for  life.  Fer- 
rante  died  in  confinement  at  the  expiration  of  thirty-four  years;  GiuHo,  at  the 
end  of  fifty-three,  was  pardoned.  He  came  out  of  prison  on  horseback,  dressed 
according  to  the  fashion  of  the  time  when  he  was  arrested, and  "greatly  excited 
the  curiosity  of  the  people." — Idem,  vol.  i.  p.  xii. 


304  ARIOSTO. 


But  Ariosto  was  the  son  of  a  man  who  had  passed  his  life  in  the 
service  of  the  family  ;  he  had  probably  been  taught  a  loyal  blind- 
ness to  its  defects ;  gratuitous  panegyrics  of  princes  had  been  the 
fashion  of  men  of  letters  since  the  time  of  Augustus  ;  and  the  poet 
wanted  help  for  his  relatives,  and  was  of  a  nature  to  take  the 
least  show  of  favour  for  a  virtue,  till  he  had  learnt,  as  he  unfor- 
tunately did,  to  be  disappointed  in  the  substance.  It  is  not  known 
what  his  appointment  was  under  the  cardinal.  Probably  he  was 
a  kind  of  gentleman  of  all  work  ;  an  officer  in  his  guards,  a  com- 
panion to  amuse,  and  a  confidential  agent  for  the  transaction  of 
business.  The  employment  in  which  he  is  chiefly  seen  is  that  of 
an  envoy,  but  he  is  said  also  to  have  been  in  the  field  of  battle  ; 
and  he  intimates  in  his  Satires,  that  household  attentions  were 
expected  of  him  which  he  was  not  quick  to  ofier,  such  as  pulling 
off  his  eminence's  boots,  and  putting  on  his  spurs.*  It  is  certain 
that  he  was  employed  in  very  delicate  negotiations,  sometimes  to 
the  risk  of  his  life  from  the  perils  of  roads  and  torrents.  Ippo- 
lito,  who  was  a  man  of  no  delicacy,  probably  made  use  of  him  on 
every  occasion  that  required  address,  the  smallest  as  well  as 
greatest, — an  interview  with  9,  pope  one  day,  and  a  despatch  to  a 
dog-fancier  the  next. 

His  great  poem,  however,  proceeded.  It  was  probably  begun 
before  he  entered  the  cardinal's  service  ;  certainly  was  in  progress 
during  the  early  part  of  his  engagement.  This  appears  from  a 
letter  written  to  Ippolito  by  his  sister  the  Marchioness  of  Mantua, 
to  whom  he  had  sent  Ariosto  at  the  beginning  of  the  year  1509  to 
congratulate  her  on  the  birth  of  a  child.  She  gives  her  brother 
special  thanks  for  sending  his  message  to  her  by  "  Messer  Ludo- 
vico  Ariosto,"  who  had  made  her,  she  says,  pass  two  delightful 
days,  with  giving  her  an  account  of  the  poem  he  was  writing.^ 

*  "  Che  debbo  fare  io  qm  '\ 

Agli  usatti,  agli  spron  (perch'  io  son  grande) 
Non  mi  posso  adattar,  per  pome  o  trarne." 

Satira  ii. 
t  "  Per  la  lettera  de  la  S.  V.  Reverendiss.  et  a  bocha  da  Ms.  Ludovico  Ariosto 
ho  inteso  quanta  leticia  ha  conceputa  del  felice  parto  mio :  il  che  mi  6  stato 
summamente  grato,  cussi  Io  ringrazio  de  la  visitazione,  et  particolarmente  di 
havermi  mandato  11  dicto  Ms.  Ludovico,  per  che  ultra  che  mi  sia  stato  acetto,  re- 
presentando  la  persona  de  la  S.  V.  Reverendiss.  lui  anche  per  conto  suo  mi  ha 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  :J05 

Isabella  was  the  name  of  this  princess ;   and  the  grateful  poet  did 
not  forget  to  embalm  it  in  his  verse.* 

Ariosto's  latest  biographer,  Panizzi,  thinks  he  never  served  un- 
der any  other  leader  than  the  cardinal  ;  but  I  cannot  help  being 
of  opinion  with  a  former  one,  wliom  he  quotes,  that  he  once  took 
arms  under  a  captain  of  the  name  of  Pio,  probably  a  kinsman  of 
his  friend  Alberto  Pio,  to  whom  he  addresses  a  Latin  poem.  It 
was  probably  on  occasion  of  some  early  disgust  with  the  cardinal ; 
but  I  am  at  a  loss  to  discover  at  what  period  of  time.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  he  had  the  cardinal's  permission,  both  to  quit  his  service, 
and  return  to  it.  Possibly  he  was  not  to  quit  it  at  all,  except  ac- 
cording to  events  ;  but  merely  had  leave  given  him  to  join  a  party 
in  arms,  who  were  furthering  Ippolito's  own  objects.  Italy  was 
full  of  captains  in  arms  and  conflicting  interests.  The  poet  might 
even,  at  some  period  of  his  life,  have  headed  a  troop  under  another 
cardinal,  his  friend  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  afterwards  Leo  the 
Tenth.  He  had  certainly  been  with  him  in  various  parts  of 
Italy ;  and  might  have  taken  part  in  some  of  his  bloodless,  if  not 
his  most  military,  equitations. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  understood  that  Ariosto  was  present  at 
the  repulse  given  to  the  Venetians  by  Ippolito,  when  they  came 
up  the  river  Po  against  Ferrara  towards  the  close  of  the  year 
1509 ;  though  he  was  away  from  the  scene  of  action  at  his  sub- 
sequent  capture  of  their  flotilla,  the  poet  having  been  despatched 
between  the  two  events  to  Pope  Julius  the  Second  on  the  delicate 
business  of  at  once  appeasing  his  anger  with  the  duke  for  resist- 
ing his  allies,  and  requesting  his  help  to  a  feudatary  of  the  church. 
Julius  was  in  one  of  his  towering  passions  at  first,  but  gave  way 
before  the  address  of  the  envoy,  and  did  what  he  desired.  But 
Ariosto's  success  in  this  mission  was  nearly  being  the  death  of 
him  in  another ;  for  Alfonso  having  accompanied  the  French  the 
year  following  in  their  attack  on  Vicenza,  where  they  committed 
cruelties  of  the  same  horrible  kind  as  have  shocked  Europe  with- 

addutta  gran  satisfazionc,  havcndomi  cum  la  narratione  dc  1'  opera  che  compone 
iacto  passar  questi  due  giorni  non  solum  senza  fastidio,  ma  cum  placer  gran- 
dissimo." — Tiraboschi,  Storia  ddla  Poesia  Jtaliana,  Matthias'  edition,  vol.  iii. 
p.  197. 

♦  Orlando  JTurioso,  canto  xxix.  st.  29. 


306  ARIOSTO. 


in  a  few  months  past,*  the  poet's  tongue,  it  was  thought,  might  be 
equally  efficacious  a  second  time ;  but  Julius,  worn  out  of  pa- 
tience with  his  too  independent  vassal,  who  maintained  an  alli- 
ance with  the  French  when  the  pope  had  ceased  to  desire  it,  was 
to  be  appeased  no  longer.  He  excommunicated  Alfonso,  and 
threatened  to  pitch  his  envoy  into  the  Tiber ;  so  that  the  poet 
was  fain  to  run  for  it,  as  the  duke  himself  was  afterwards,  when 
he  visited  Rome  to  be  absolved.  Would  Julius  have  thus  treated 
Ariosto,  could  he  have  foreseen  his  renown  ?  Probably  he  would. 
The  greater  the  opposition  to  the  will,  the  greater  the  will  itself. 
To  chuck  an  accomplished  envoy  into  the  river  would  have  been 
much ;  but  to  chuck  the  immortal  poet  there,  laurels  and  all,  in 
the  teeth  of  the  amazement  of  posterity,  would  have  been  a  temp- 
tation irresistible. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  Ariosto,  probably  from  inability  to 
choose  his  times  or  modes  of  returning  home,  contracted  a  cough, 
which  is  understood  to  have  shortened  his  existence  ;  so  that  Ju- 
lius may  have  killed  him  after  all.  But  the  pope  had  a  worse 
enemy  in  his  own  hosom — his  violence — which  killed  himself  in 
a  much  shorter  period.  He  died  in  little  more  than  two  years 
afterwards  ;  and  the  poet's  prospects  were  all  now  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent sort — at  least  he  thought  so;  for  in  March,  1513,  his  friend 
Giovanni  de'  Medici  succeeded  to  the  papacy,  under  the  title  of 
Leo  the  Tenth. 

Ariosto  hastened  to  Rome,  among  a  shoal  of  visitants,  to  con- 
gratulate the  new  pope,  perhaps  not  without  a  commission  from 
Alfonso  to  see  what  he  could  do  for  his  native  country,  on  which 
the  rival  Medici  family  never  ceased  to  have  designs.  The  poet 
was  full  of  hope,  for  he  had  known  Leo  under  various  fortunes ; 
had  been  styled  by  him  not  only  a  friend,  but  a  brother  ;  and 
promised  all  sorts  of  participations  of  his  prosperity.  Not  one  of 
them  came.  The  visitor  was  cordially  received.  Leo  stooped 
from  his  throne,  squeezed  his  hand,  and  kissed  him  on  both  his 
cheeks ;  but  "  at  night,"  says  Ariosto,  "  I  went  all  the  way  to 
the  Sheep  to  get  my  supper,  wet  through."  All  that  Leo  gave 
him  was  a  "  bull,"  probably  the  one  securing  to  him  the  profits 

*  See  the  horrible  account  of  the  suffocated  Vicentine  Grottoes,  in  Sismondi, 
Histoire  des  Republiques  Italiennes,  &c.  vol.  iv.  p.  48. 


HIS   LIFE  AND  GENIUS.  307 

of  his  Orlando  ;  and  the  poet's  friend  Bil)biena — wit,  cardinal, 
and  kinsman  of  Berni — facilitated  the  bull,  but  the  receiver  dis- 
charged the  fees.  He  did  not  get  one  penny  by  promise,  pope, 
or  friend.*  He  complains  a  little,  but  all  in  good  humour  ;  and 
good-naturedly  asks  what  he  was  to  expect,  when  so  many  hun- 
gry kinsmen  and  partisans  were  to  be  served  first.  Well  and 
wisely  asked  too,  and  with  a  superiority  to  his  fortunes  which 
Leo  and  Bibbiena  might  have  envied. 

It  is  thought  probable,  however,  that  if  the  poet  had  been  less 
a  friend  to  the  house  of  Este,  Leo  would  have  kept  his  word  with 
him,  for  their  intimacy  had  undoubtedly  been  of  the  most  cordial 
description.  But  it  is  supposed  that  Leo  was  afraid  he  should 
have  a  Ferrarese  envoy  constantly  about  him,  had  he  detained 
Ariosto  in  Rome.  The  poet,  however,  it  is  admitted,  was  not  a 
good  hunter  of  preferment.  He  could  not  play  the  assenter,  and 
bow  and  importune :  and  sovereigns,  however  friendly  they  may 
have  been  before  their  elevation,  go  the  way  of  most  princely 
flesh  when  they  have  attained  it.  They  like  to  take  out  a  man's 
gratitude  beforehand,  perhaps  because  they  feel  little  security  in 
it  afterwards. 

The  elevation  to  the  papacy  of  the  cheerful  and  indulgent  son 
of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  after  the  troublous  reign  of  Julius,  was 
hailed  with  delight  by  all  Christendom,  and  nowhere  more  so  than 
in  the  pope's  native  place,  Florence.  Ariosto  went  there  to  see 
the  spectacles  ;  and  there,  in  the  midst  of  them,  he  found  himself 
robbed  of  his  heart  by  the  lady  whom  he  afterwards  married. 
Her  name  was  Alessandra  Benucci.  She  was  the  widow  of  one 
of  the  Strozzi  family,  whom  he  had  known  in  Ferrara,  and  he  had 
long  admired  her.     The  poet,  who,  like  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio, 

♦       "  Piegossi  a  me  dalla  beata  sede ; 
La  mano  e  poi  le  gote  anibe  mi  prese, 
E  11  santo  bacio  in  amendue  mi  diede. 

Di  mezza  quclla  bolla  anco  cortese 
Mi  fu,  della  quale  ora  il  mio  Bibbiena 
Espedito  ra'  ha  il  resto  alle  mic  spese. 

Indi  col  seno  e  con  la  falda  piena 
Di  spome,  ma  di  pioggia  molle  e  brutto, 
La  notte  andai  sin  al  Montone  a  cena."        Sat.  iv. 


3j^^^^  ARIOSTO. 


has  recorded  the  day  on  which  he  fell  in  love,  which  was  that  of 
St.  John  the  Baptist  (the  showy  saint-days  of  the  south  offer  spe- 
cial temptations  to  that  effect),  dwells  with  minute  fondness  on 
the  particulars  of  the  lady's  appearance.  Her  dress  was  black 
silk,  embroidered  with  two  grape-bearing  vines  intertwisted  ;  and 
"  between  her  serene  forehead  and  the  path  that  went  dividing  in 
two  her  rich  and  golden  tresses,"  was  a  sprig  of  laurel  in  bud. 
Her  observer,  probably  her  welcome  if  not  yet  accepted  lover, 
beheld  something  very  significant  in  this  attire  ;  and  a  mysterious 
poem,  in  which  he  records  a  device  of  a  black  pen  feathered  with 
gold,  which  he  wore  embroidered  on  a  gown  of  his  own,  has  been 
supposed  to  allude  to  it.  As  every  body  is  tempted  to  make  his 
guess  on  such  occasions,  I  take  the  pen  to  have  been  the  black- 
haired  poet  himself,  and  the  golden  feather  the  tresses  of  the  lady. 
Beautiful  as  he  describes  her,  with  a  face  full  of  sweetness,  and 
manners  noble  and  engaging,  he  speaks  most  of  the  charms  of  her 
golden  locks.  The  black  gown  could  hardly  have  implied  her 
widowhood  :  the  allusion  would  not  have  been  delicate.  The 
vine  belongs  to  dramatic  poets,  among  whom  the  lover  was  at  that 
time  to  be  classed,  the  Orlando  not  having  appeared.  Its  duplifi- 
cation  intimated  another  self;  and  the  crowning  laurel  was  the 
success  that  awaited  the  heroic  poet  and  the  conqueror  of  the 
lady's  heart.* 

The  marriage  was  never  acknowledged.  The  husband  was  in 
the  receipt  of  profits  arising  from  church-offices,  which  putlhim 
into  the  condition  of  the  fellow  of  a  college  with  us,  who  cannot 
marry  so  long  as  he  retains  his  fellowship :  but  it  is  proved  to 
have  taken  place,  though  the  date  of  it  is  uncertain.  Ariosto,  in 
a  satire  written  three  or  four  years  after  his  falling  in  love,  says 
/  he  never  intends  either  to  marry  or  to  take  orders ;  because,  if 
he  takes  orders,  he  cannot  marry ;  and  if  he  marries,  he  cannot 
take  orders — that  is  to  say,  must  give  up  his  semi-priestly  emol- 
uments. This  is  one  of  the  falsehoods  which  the  Roman  Catholic 
religion  thinks  itself  warranted  in  tempting  honest  men  to  fall 
into ;  thus  perplexing  their  faith  as  to  the  very  roots  of  all  faith, 
and   tending   to  maintain  a  sensual    hypocrisy,    which    can    do 

*  See  canzone  the  first,  "  Non  so  s'  io  potrb,"  &c. ;  and  the  capitoh  beginning 
"  Delia  mia  negra  penna  in  fregio  d'  oro." 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GEMUS.  309 

no  good  to  tlie  strongest  minds,  and  must  terribly  injure  the 
weak. 

Ariosto's  love  for  this  lady  I  take  to  have  been  one  of  the 
causes  of  dissatisfaction  between  him  and  the  cardinal.  "  For- 
tunately for  the  poet,"  as  Panizzi  observes,  Ippolito  was  not  al- 
ways in  Ferrara.  He  travelled  in  Italy,  and  he  had  an  arch- 
bishopric in  Hungary,  the  tenure  of  which  compelled  occasional 
residence.  His  company  was  not  desired  in  Rome,  so  that  he 
was  seldom  there.  Ariosto,  however,  was  an  amusing  compan- 
ion ;  and  the  cardinal  seems  not  to  have  liked  to  go  anywhere 
without  him.  In  the  year  1515  he  was  attended  by  the  poet  part 
of  the  way  on  a  journey  to  Rome  and  Urbino ;  but  Ariosto  fell 
ill,  and  had  leave  to  return.  He  confesses  that  his  illness  W£is 
owing  to  an  anxiety  of  love ;  and  he  even  makes  an  appeal  to  the 
cardinal's  experience  of  such  feelings  ;  so  that  it  might  seem  he 
was  not  afraid  of  Ippolito's  displeasure  in  that  direction.  But  the 
weakness  which  seltish  people  excuse  in  themselves  becomes  a 
"  very  different  thing"  (as  they  phrase  it)  in  another.  The  ap- 
peal to  the  cardinal's  experience  might  only  have  exasperated 
him,  in  its  assumption  of  the  identity  of  the  case.  However,  the 
poet  was,  at  all  events,  left  this  time  to  the  indulgence  of  his  love 
and  his  poetry ;  and  in  the  course  of  the  ensuing  year,  a  copy  of 
the  first  edition  of  the  Orlando  Furioso,  in  forty  cantos,  was  put 
into  the  hands  of  the  illustrious  person  to  whom  it  was  dedicated. 

The  words  in  which  the  cardinal  was  pleased  to  express  him- 
self on  this  occasion  have  become  memorable.  "  Where  the 
devil.  Master  Lodovick,"  said  the  reverend  personage,  "  have 
you  picked  up  such  a  parcel  of  trumpery  ?"  The  original  term 
is  much  stronger,  aggravating  the  insult  with  indecency.  There 
is  no  equivalent  for  it  in  English  ;  and  I  shall  not  repeat  it  in 
Italian.  "  It  is  as  low  and  indecent,"  says  Panizzi,  "  as,  any  in 
the  language."  Suffice  it  to  say  that,  although  the  age  was  not 
scrupulous  in  such  matters,  it  was  one  of  the  last  words  befitting 
the  lips  of  the  reverend  Catholic ;  and  that,  when  Ippolito  of 
Este  (as  Ginguene  observes)  made  that  speech  to  the  great  poet, 
"  he  uttered — prince,  cardinal,  and  mathematician  as  he  was — 
an  impertinence."* 

*  Hiatoire  LUtiraire,  t&c.  vol.  iv.  p.  335. 

6* 


310  ARIOSTO. 


Was  the  cardinal  put  out  of  temper  by  a  device  which  ap- 
peared in  this  book  ?  On  the  leaf  succeeding  the  title-page  was 
the  privilege  for  its  publication,  granted  by  Leo  in  terms  of  the 
most  flattering  personal  recognition.*  So  far  so  good;  unless 
the  unpoetical  Este  patron  was  not  pleased  to  see  such  interest 
taken  in  the  book  by  the  tasteful  Medici  patron.  But  on  the  back 
of  this  leaf  was  a  device  of  a  hive,  with  the  bees  burnt  out  of  it 
for  their  honey,  and  the  motto  "  Evil  for  good"  [Pro  dono  malum). 
Most  biographers  are  of  opinion  that  this  device  was  aimed  at  the 
cardinal's  ill  return  for  all  the  sweet  words  lavished  on  him  and 
his  house.  If  so,  and  supposing  Ariosto  to  have  presented  the 
dedication-copy  in  person,  it  would  have  been  curious  to  see  the 
faces  of  the  two  men  while  his  Eminence  was  looking  at  it. 
Some  will  think  that  the  goodnatured  poet  could  hardly  have 
taken  such  an  occasion  of  displaying  his  resentment.  But  the 
device  did  not  express  at  whom  it  was  aimed  :  the  cardinal  need 
not  have  applied  it  to  himself  if  he  did  not  choose,  especially  as 
the  book  was  full  of  his  praises  ;  and  goodnatured  people  will  not 
always  miss  an  opportunity  of  covertly  inflicting  a  sting.  The 
device,  at  all  events,  shewed  that  the  honey-maker  had  got  worse 
than  nothing  by  his  honey  ;  and  the  house  of  Este  could  not  say 
they  had  done  any  thing  to  contradict  it. 

I  think  it  probable  that  neither  the  poet's  device  nor  the  car- 
dinal's speech  were  forgotten,  when,  in  the  course  of  the  next  year, 
the  parties  came  to  a  rupture  in  consequence  of  the  servant's  re- 

*  "  Singularis  tua  et  pervetus  erga  nos  familiamque  nostrum  observantia, 
egregiaque  bonarum  artium  et  litterarum  doctrina,  atque  in  studiis  mitioribus, 
prjEsertimque  poetices  elegans  et  praeclarum  ingenium,  jure  prope  suo  a  nobis 
exposcere  videntur,  ut  quae  tibi  usui  futurse  sint,  justa  praesertim  et  honesta 
petenti,  ea  tibi  liberaliter  et  gratiose  concedamus.  Quamobrem,"  &c.  "On  the 
same  page,"  says  Panizzi,  "  are  mentioned  the  privileges  granted  by  the  king  of 
France,  by  the  repubUc  of  Venice,  and  other  potentates;"  so  that  authors,  in 
those  days,  appear  to  have  been  thought  worthy  of  profiting  by  their  labours, 
wherever  they  contributed  to  the  enjoyment  of  mankind. 

Leo's  privilege  is  the  one  that  so  long  underwent  the  singular  obloquy  of 
being  a  bull  of  excommunication  against  all  who  objected  to  the  poem !  a  mis- 
conception on  the  part  of  some  ignorant  man,  or  misrepresentation  by  some 
malignant  one,  which  affords  a  remarkable  warning  against  taking  things  on 
trust  from  one  writer  after  another.  Even  Bayle  (see  the  article  "  Leo  X."  in 
his  Dictionary)  suffered  his  inclinations  to  bUnd  his  vigilance. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  311 

fusing  to  attend  his  master  into  Hungary.     Ariosto  excused  him- 
self on  account  of  the  state  of  his  health  and  of  his  family.     He 
said  that  a  cold  climate  did  not  agree  with   him  ;  that  his  chest 
was  atfected,  and  could  not  bear  even  the  stoves  of  Hungary  ;   and 
that  he  could  not,  in  common  decency  and  humanity,  leave  his 
mother  in  her  old  age,  especially  as  all  the  rest  of  the  family  were 
away  but  his  youngest  sister,  whose  interests  he  had  also  to  take 
care  of.     But  Ippolito  was  not  to  be  appeased.     The  public  have 
seen,  in  a  late  female  biography,  a  deplorable  instance  of  the  un- 
feelingness  with  which  even  a  princess  with  a  reputation  for   re- 
ligion could  treat  the  declining  health  and  unwilling   retirement 
of  a  poor  slave  in  her  service,  fifty  times  her  superior  in  every 
thing  but  servility.     Greater  delicacy  was  not  to  be  expected  of 
the  military  priest.     The  nobler  the  servant,  the  greater  the  de- 
sire to  trample  upon  him  and  keep  him  at  a  disadvantage.     It  is 
a  grudge  which  rank  owes  to  genius,  and  which  it  can  only  wave 
when  its  possessor  is  himself"  one  of  God  Almighty's  gentlemen." 
I  do  not  mean  in  point  of  genius,  which  is  by  no  means  the  high- 
est thing  in  the  world,  whatever  its  owners  may  think  of  it  ;   but 
in  point  of  the  highest  of  all  things,  which  is  nobleness  of  heart. 
I  confess  I  think  Ariosto  was  wrong  in  expecting  what  he  did  of 
a  man  he  must  have  known  so  well,  and  in  complaining  so  much 
of  courts,  however  good-humouredly.     A  prince  occupies  the  sta- 
tion he  does,  to  avert  the  perils  of  disputed  successions,  and  not 
to  be  what  his  birth  cannot  make  him — if  nature  has  not  supplied 
the  materials.     Besides,  the  cardinal,  in  his  quality  of  a  mechan- 
ical-minded man  with  no  taste,  might  with  reason  have  complain, 
ed  of  his  servant's   attending  to  poetry  when  it  was  "  not  in  his 
bond  ;"  when  it  diverted  from  the  only  attentions  which  his  em- 
ployer understood  or  desired.      Ippolito  candidly  confessed,  as 
Ariosto  himself  tells  us,  that  he  not  only  did  not  care  for  poetry, 
but  never  gave  his  attendant  one  stiver  in  patronage  of  it,  or  for 
any  thing  whatsoever  but  going  his  journeys  and  doing  as  he  was 
bidden.*     On  the  other  hand,  the  cardinal's  payments  were  sorry 

,♦  "  Apollo,  tua  mcrc6,  tua  mcrce,  santo 
CoUcgio  delle  Muse,  io  non  mi  trovo 
Tanto  per  voi,  ch'  io  possa  farmi  un  nianto : 


312  ARIOSTO. 


ones ;  and  the  poet  might  with  justice  have  thought,  that  he  was 
not  bound  to  consider  them  an  equivalent  for  the  time  he  was  ex- 
pected to  give  up.  The  only  thing  to  have  been  desired  in  this 
case  was,  that  he  should  have  said  so ;  and,  in  truth,  at  the  close 
of  the  explanation  which  he  gave  on  the  subject  to  his  friends  at 
court,  he  did — boldly  desiring  them,  as  became  him,  to  tell  the 
cardinal,  that  if  his  eminence  expected  him  to  be  a  "  serf"  for 
what  he  received,  he  should  decline  the  bargain ;  and  that  he 
preferred  the  humblest  freedom  and  his  studies  to  a  slavery  so 
preposterous.* 

The  truth  is,  the  poet  should  have  attached  himself  wholly  to 
the  Medici.  Had  he  not  adhered  to  the  duller  house,  he  might 
have  led  as  happy  a  life  with  the  pope  as  Pulci  did  with  the  pope's 
father  ;  perhaps  have  been  made  a  cardinal,  like  his  friends  Bem- 
bo  and  Sadolet.     But  then  we  might  have  lost  the  Orlando. 

The  only  sinecure  which  the  poet  is  now  supposed  to  have  re- 
tained, was  a  grant  of  twenty-five  crowns  every  four  months  on 
the  episcopal  chancery  of  Milan  :  so,  to  help  out  his  petty  income, 
he  proceeded  to  enter  into  the  service  of  Alfonso,  which  shews 
that  both  the  brothers  were  not  angry  with  him.  He  tells  us, 
that  he  would  gladly  have  had  no  new  master,  could  he  have 
helped  it ;  but  that,  if  he  must  needs  serve,  he  would  rather  serve 
the  master  of  every  body  else  than  a  subordinate  one.  At  this 
juncture  he  had  a  brief  prospect  of  being  as  free  as  he  wished ; 

E  se  '1  signor  m'  ha  dato  onde  far  novo 
Ogni  anno  mi  potrei  piti  d'  un  mantello, 
Che  mi  abbia  per  vol  dato,  non  approvo. 

Egli  r  ha  detto."  Satira  ii. 

*  "  Se  avermi  dato  onde  ogni  quattro  mesi 
Ho  venticinque  scudi,  nb  si  fermi, 
Che  molte  volte  non  mi  sien  contesi, 

Mi  debbe  incatenar,  schiavo  tenermi, 
Obbligarmi  ch'  io  sudi  e  tremi  senza 
Rispetto  alcun,  ch'  io  muoja  o  ch'  io  m'  infermi, 

Non  gli  lasciate  aver  questa  credenza :  • 

Ditegli,  che  pit  tosto  ch'  esser  servo, 
TorrC)  la  povertade  in  pazienza," 

Satira  ii. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  813 


tor  an  uncle  died  Jeaving  a  large  landed  property  still  known  as 
the  Ariosto  lands  (Lc  Ariostc)  ;  but  a  conyent  demanded  it  on  the 
part  of  one  of  their  brotherhood,  who  was  a  natural  son  of  this 
gentleman  ;  and  a  more  formidable  and  ultimately  successful  claim 
was  advanced  in  a  court  of  law  by  the  Chamber  of  tlie  Duchy  of 
Ferrara,  the  first  judge  in  the  cause  being  the  duke's  own  stew- 
ard and  a  personal  enemy  of  the  poet's,  Ariosto,  therefore,  while 
the  suit  was  going  on,  was  obliged  to  content  himself  with  his  fees 
from  Milan  and  a  monthly  allowance  which  he  received  from  the 
duke  of  "  about  thirty-eight  shillings,"  together  with  provisions 
for  three  servants  and  two  horses.  He  entered  the  duke's  service 
in  the  spring  of  1518,  and  remained  in  it  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
But  it  was  not  so  burdensome  as  that  of  the  cardinal  ;  and  the 
consequence  of  the  poet's  greater  leisure  was  a  second  edition  of 
the  Fun'oso,  in  the  year  1521,  with  additions  and  corrections  ; 
still,  however,  in  forty  cantos  only.  It  appears,  by  a  deed  of 
agreement,*  that  the  work  was  printed  at  the  author's  expense  ; 
that  he  was  to  sell  the  bookseller  one  hundred  copies  for  sixty 
livres  (about  51.  I2s.)  on  condition  of  the  book's  not  being  sold  at 
the  rate  of  more  than  sixteen  sous  {Is.  8d.) ;  that  the  author  was 
not  to  give,  sell,  or  allow  to  be  sold,  any  copy  of  the  book  at 
Ferrara,  except  by  the  bookseller  ;  that  the  bookseller,  after  dis- 
posing of  the  hundred  copies,  was  to  have  as  many  more  as  he 
chose  on  the  same  terms ;  and  that,  on  his  failing  to  require  a 
further  supply,  Ariosto  was  to  be  at  liberty  to  sell  his  volumes  to 
whom  he  pleased.  "  With  such  profits,"  observes  Panizzi,  "  it 
was  not  likely  that  the  poet  would  soon  become  independent :" 
and  it  may  be  added,  that  he  certainly  got  nothing  by  the  first  edi- 
tion, whatever  he  may  have  done  by  the  second.  He  expressly 
tells  us,  in  the  satire  which  he  wrote  on  declining  to  go  abroad 
with  Ippolito,  that  all  his  poetry  had  not  procured  him  money 
enough  to  purchase  a  cloak. f  Twenty  years  afterwards,  when 
he  was  dead,  the  poem  was  in  such  request,  that,  between  1542 
and  1551,  Panizzi  calculates  there  must  have  been  a  sale  of  it  in 
Europe  to  the  amount  of  a  hundred  thousand  copies.:}: 

♦  Panizzi,  vol.  i.  p.  29.  The  atrrcemcnt  itself  is  in  Baruffaldi. 
t  See  the  lines  before  quoted,  beginning  "  Apollo,  tua  mercfe." 
t  Bibliographical  Xoiiccs  of  Editions  of  Ariosto,  prefixed  to  his  first  vol.  p.  51. 


314  ARIOSTO. 


!  The  second  edition  of  the  Furioso  did  not  extricate  the  author 
from  very  serious  difficulties  ;  for  the  next  year  he  was  compelled 
to  apply  to  Alfonso,  either  to  relieve  him  from  his  necessities,  or 
permit  him  to  look  for  some  employment  more  profitable  than  the 
ducal  service.  The  answer  of  this  prince,  who  was  now  rich, 
but  had  always  been  penurious,  and  who  never  laid  out  a  farthing, 
if  he  could  help  it,  except  in  defence  of  his  capital,  was  an  ap- 
pointment of  Ariosto  to  the  government  of  a  district  in  a  state  of 
taiarchy,  called  Garfagnana,  which  had  nominally  returned  to  his 
rule  in  consequence  of  the  death  of  Leo,  who  had  wrested  it  from 
him.  It  was  a  wild  spot  in  the  Apennines,  on  the  borders  of  the 
Ferrarese  and  papal  territories.  Ariosto  was  there  three  years, 
and  is  said  to  have  reduced  it  to  order  :  but,  according  to  his  own 
account,  he  had  very  doubtful  work  of  it.  The  place  was  over- 
run with  banditti,  including  the  troops  commissioned  to  suppress 
them.  It  required  a  severer  governor  than  he  was  inclined  to  be ; 
and  Alfonso  did  not  attend  to  his  requisitions  for  supplies.  The 
candid  and  goodnatured  poet  intimates  that  the  duke  might  have 
given  him  the  appointment  rather  for  the  governor's  sake  than  the 
people's  ;  and  the  cold,  the  loneliness  and  barrenness  of  the  place, 
and,  above  all,  his  absence  from  the  object  of  his  affections,  op- 
pressed him.  He  did  not  write  a  verse  for  twelve  months  ;  he 
says  he  felt  like  a  bird  moulting.*  The  best  thing  got  out  of  it 
was  an  anecdote  for  posterity.  The  poet  was  riding  out  one  day 
with  a  few  attendants — some  say  walking  out  in  a  fit  of  absence 
of  mind — when  he  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  band  of  out- 
laws, who,  in  a  suspicious  manner,  barely  suffered  him  to  pass. 
A  reader  of  Mrs.  Radclilfe  might  suppose  them  a  band  of  condoU 
tieri,  under  the  command  of  some  profligate  desperado  ;  and  such 
perhaps  they  were.     The  governor  had  scarcely  gone  by,  when 

*  "  La  novitk  del  loco  e  stata  tanta, 

C  ho  fatto  come  augel  che  muta  gabbia, 
Che  molti  giorni  resta  che  non  canta." 

For  the  rest  of  the  above  particulars  see  the  fifth  satire,  beginning  "  II  \'igesi- 
mo  giorno  di  Febbraio."  I  quote  the  exordium,  because  these  compositions  are 
differently  numbered  in  different  editions.  The  one  I  generally  use  is  that 
of  Molini — Poesie  Varie  di  Lodovico  Ariosto,  con  Annotazioni.  Firenze,  l2mo. 
1824. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  315 


the  leader  of  the  hand,  discovcrinsr  \vl,o  he  was,  ciime  ridin"-  back 
witli  iinich  earnestness,  and  making  his  obeisance  to  the  poet,  said, 
that  he  never  sliould  have  allowed  him  to  pass  in  that  manner  had 
he  known  him  to  be  the  Signor  Ludovico  Ariosto,  author  of  the 
Orlando  Furioso ;  that  his  own  name  was  Filippo  Pacchione  (a 
celebrated  personage  of  his  order)  ;  and  that  his  men  and  himself, 
so  far  from  doing  the  signor  displeasure,  would  have  the  honour 
of  conducting  him  back- to  his  castle.  "  And  so  they  did,"  says 
Baretti,  "  entertaining  him  all  along  the  way  with  the  various  ex- 
cellences they  had  discerned  in  his  poem,  and  bestowing  upon  it 
the  most  rapturous  praises/"* 

On  his  return  from  Garfagnana,  Ariosto  is  understood  to  have 
made  several  journeys  in  Italy,  either  with  or  without  the  duke 
his  master;  some  of  them  to  Mantua,  where  it  has  been  said  that 
he  was  crowned  with  laurel  by  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth. 
But  the  truth  seems  to  be,  that  he  only  received  a  laureate  diplo- 
ma :  it  does  not  appear  that  Charles  made  him  any  other  gift. 
His  majesty,  and  the  whole  house  of  Este,  and  the  pope,  and  all 
the  other  Italian  princes,  left  that  to  be  done  by  the  imperial  gen- 
eral,  the  celebrated  Alfonso  Davallos,  Marquess  of  Vasto,  to  whom 
he  was  sent  on  some  mission  by  the  Duke  of  Ferrara,  and  who 
settled  on  him  an  annuity  of  a  hundred  golden  ducats  ;  "  the  only 
reward,"  says  Panizzi,  "  which  we  find  to  have  been  conferred 
on  Ariosto  expressly  as  a  poet."'}'     Davallos  was  one  of  the  con- 

*  Italian  Library,  p.  52.  I  quote  Baretti,  because  he  speaks  with  a  corres- 
ponding enthusiasm.  He  calls  the  incident  "  a  very  rare  proof  of  the  irresisti- 
ble powers  of  poetry,  and  a  noble  comment  on  the  fables  of  Orpheus  and 
Ainphion,"  &c.  The  words  "noble  comment"  might  lead  us  to  fancy  that 
Johnson  had  made  some  such  remark  to  him  while  relating  the  story  in  Bolt 
Court.  Nor  is  the  former  part  of  the  sentence  unlike  him:  "A  very  rare  proof, 
sir,  of  the  irresistible  powers  of  poetry,  and  a  noble  comment,"  &c.  Johnson, 
notwithstanding  his  classical  predilections,  was  likely  to  take  much  interest  in 
Ariosto  on  account  of  his  universality  and  the  heartiness  of  his  passions.  Ho 
had  a  secret  regard  for  '■  wildness"  of  all  sorts,  provided  it  came  within  any  pale 
of  the  sympathetic.  He  was  also  fond  of  romances  of  chivalry.  On  one  occa- 
sion he  selected  the  history  of  Felixmarte  of  Hyrcania  as  his  course  of  reading 
during  a  visit. 

t  The  deed  of  gift  sets  forth  the  interest  which  it  becomes  princes  and  com- 
manders to  take  in  men  of  letters,  particularly  poets,  as  heralds  of  their  fame, 
and  consequently  the  special  fitness  of  the  illustrious  and  superexccUcnt  poet 


316  ARIOSTO. 


querors  of  Francis  the  First,  young  and  handsome,  and  himself  a 
writer  of  verses.  The  grateful  poet  accordingly  availed  himself 
of  his  benefactor's  accomplishments  to  make  him,  in  turn,  a  pres- 
ent of  every  virtue  under  the  sun.  Cassar  vi^as  not  so  liberal, 
Nestor  so  wise,  Achilles  so  potent,  Nireus  so  beautiful,  nor  even 
Ladas,  Alexander's  messenger,  so  swift.*  Ariosto  was  now  verg- 
ing towards  the  grave ;  and  he  probably  saw  in  the  hundred 
ducats  a  golden  sunset  of  his  cares. 

Meantime,  however,  the  poet  had  built  a  house,  which,  although 
small,  was  raised  with  his  own  money  ;  so  that  the  second  edition 
of  the  Orlando  may  have  realized  some  profits  at  last.  He  re- 
corded the  pleasant  fact  in  an  inscription  over  the  door,  which  has 
become  celebrated  : 

*  Parva,  sed  apta  mihi ;  sed  nulli  obnoxia ;  sed  non 
Sordida ;  parta  meo  sed  tamen  sere  domus." 

Small,  yet  it  suits  me ;  is  of  no  offence ; 
Was  built,  not  meanly,  at  my  own  expense. 

What  a  pity  (to  compare  great  things  with  small)  that  he  had 
not  as  long  a  life  before  him  to  enjoy  it,  as  Gil  Bias  had  with  his 
own  comfortable  quotation  over  his  retreat  at  Lirias  !f 

The  house  still  remains  ;  but  the  inscription  unfortunately  be- 
came effaced  ;  though  the  following  one  remains,  which  was  ad- 
ded by  his  son  Virginio  : 

"Sic  domus  hsec  Areostea 
Propitios  habeat  decs,  olim  ut  Pindarica." 

Dear  to  the  gods,  whatever  come  to  pass, 
Be  Ariosto's  house,  as  Pindar's  was. 

This  was  an  anticipation — perhaps  the  origin — of  Milton's  son- 

Lodovico  Ariosto  for  receiving  from  Alfonso  Davallos,  Marquess  of  Vasto,  the 
irrevocable  sum  of,  &c.  &c.  Panizzi  has  copied  the  substance  of  it  from  Ba- 
ruffaldi,  vol.  i.  p.  67. 

♦   Orlando  Furioso,  canto  xxxiii.  st.  28. 

t  "Inveni  portum:  spes  et  fortuna,  valete; 
Sat  me  lusistis ;  ludite  nunc  alios." 

My  port  is  found:  adieu,  ye  freaks  of  chance j 
The  dance  ye  led  me,  now  let  others  dance. 


HIS   LIFE  AxXD   GENIUS.  317 

net  about  his  own  house,  addressed  to  "  Captains  and  Collonels," 
during  the  civil  war.* 

Davallos  made  the  poet  his  generous  present  in  the  October  of 
the  year  1531  ;  and  in  the  same  month  of  the  year  followino-  the 
Orlando  was  publislied  as  it  now  stands,  with  various  insertions 
throughout,  chiefly  stories,  and  six  additional  cantos.  Cardinal 
Ippolito  had  been  dead  some  time ;  and  the  device  of  the  beehive 
was  exchanged  for  one  of  two  vipers,  with  a  hand  and  pair  of 
shears  cutting  out  their  tongues,  and  the  motto,  "  Thou  hast  pre- 
ferred ill-will  to  good"  (Dilexisti  maliiiam  super  henignitatem). 
The  allusion  is  understood  to  have  been  to  certain  critics  whose 
names  have  all  perished,  unless  Sperone  (of  whom  we  shall  hear 
more  by  and  by)  was  one  of  them.  The  appearance  of  this  edi- 
tion was  eagerly  looked  for  ;  but  the  trouble  of  correcting  the 
press,  and  the  destruction  of  a  theatre  by  fire  which  had  been 
built  under  the  poet's  direction,  did  his  health  no  good  in  its  rapid- 
ly declining  condition  ;  and  after  suffering  greatly  from  an  ob- 
struction, he  died,  much  attenuated,  on  the  sixth  day  of  June, 
1533.  His  decease,  his  fond  biographers  have  told  us,  took  place 
"about  three  in  the  afternoon;"  and  he  was  "  aged  fifty-eight 
years,  eight  months,  and  twenty-eight  days."  His  body,  accord- 
ing to  his  direction,  was  taken  to  the  church  of  the  Benedictines 
during  the  night  by  four  men,  with  only  two  tapers,  and  in  the 
most  private  and  simple  manner.  The  monks  followed  it  to  the 
grave  out  of  respect,  contrary  to  their  usual  custom. 

So  lived,  and  so  died,  and  so  desired  humbly  to  be  buried,  one 
of  the  delights  of  the  world. 

His  son  Yirginio  had  erected  a  chapel  in  the  garden  of  the 
house  built  by  his  father,  and  he  wished  to  have  his  body  removed 
thither  ;  but  the  monks  would  not  allow  it.  The  tomb,  at  first  a 
very  humble  one,  was  subsequently  altered  and  enriched  several 
times  ;  but  remains,  I  believe,  as  rebuilt  at  the  beginning  of  the 
century  before  last  by  his  grand-nephew,  Ludovico  Ariosto,  with 
a   bust   of  the    poet,  and    two   statues   representing  Poetry  and 

Glory. 

*  "  The  great  Eniathian  conqueror  bade  spare 

The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 
Went  to  the  ground,"  &c. 


318  ARIOSTO. 


Ariosto  was  tall  and  stout,  with  a  dark  complexion,  bright  black 
eyes,  black  and  curling  hair,  aquiline  nose,  and  shoulders  broad 
but  a  little  stooping.  His  aspect  was  thoughtful,  and  his  gestures 
deliberate.  Titian,  besides  painting  his  portrait,  designed  that 
which  appeared  in  the  woodcut  of  the  author's  own  third  edition  of 
his  poem,  which  has  been  copied  into  Mr.  Panizzi's.  It  has  all 
the  look  of  truth  of  that  great  artist's  vital  hand  ;  but,  though 
there  is  an  expression  of  the  genial  character  of  the  mouth,  not- 
withstanding; the  exuberance  of  beard,  it  does  not  suo-gest  the 
sweetness  observable  in  one  of  the  medals  of  Ariosto,  a  wax  im- 
pression of  which  is  now  before  me  ;  nor  has  the  nose  so  much 
delicacy  and  grace.* 

The  poet's  temperament  inclined  him  to  melancholy,  but  his  in- 
tercourse was  always  cheerful.  One  biographer  says  he  was 
strong  and  healthy — another,  that  he  was  neither.  In  all  proba- 
bility he  was  naturally  strong,  but  weakened  by  a  life  full  of 
emotion.  He  talks  of  growing  old  at  forty-four,  and  of  having 
been  bald  for  some  time.f  He  had  a  cough  for  many  years  be. 
fore  he  died.  His  son  says  he  cured  it  by  drinking  good  old  wine. 
Ariosto  says  that  "  vin  fumoso"  did  not  agree  with  him  ;  but  that 
might  only  mean  wine  of  a  heady  sort.  The  chances,  under  such 
circumstances,  were  probably  against  wine  of  any  kind  ;  and 
Panizzi  thinks  the  cough  was  never  subdued.  His  physicians 
forbade  him  all  sorts  of  stimulants  with  his  food.ij: 

*  This  medal  is  inscribed  "Ludovicus  Ariost.  Poet."  and  has  the  bee-hive  on 
the  reverse,  with  the  motto  "  Pro  bono  malum."  Ariosto  was  so  fond  of  this 
device,  that  in  his  fragment  called  the  Five  Cantos  (c.  v.  st.  2G),  the  Paladin 
Rinaldo  wears  it  embroidered  on  his  mantle. 

t       "  lo  son  de'  dieci  il  primo,  e  vecchio  fatto 
Di  quaranta  quattro  anni,  e  U.  capo  calvo 
Da  un  tempo  in  qua  sotto  il  cuffiotto  appiatto." 

Satira  ii. 
X  "II  vin  fumoso,  a  me  vie  piii  interdetto 
Che  '1  tosco,  costi  a  inviti  si  tracanna,. 
E  sacrilegio  h  non  ber  molto,  e  schietto. 

(He  is  speaking  of  the  wines  of  Hungary,  and  of  the  hard  drinking  expected 
of  strangers  in  that  country.) 

Tutti  Ii  cibi  son  con  pepe  e  canna, 
Di  amomo  e  d'  altri  aromati,  che  tutti 
Come  nocivi  il  medico  mi  danna." 

Satira  ii. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GKMUS.  311) 


His  temper  and  liabits  were  those  of  a  man  wliolly  given  up  to 
love  and  poetry.  In  his  youth  he  was  volatile,  and  at  no  time 
without  what  is  called  some  "  aflliir  of  the  heart.''  Every  wo- 
man attracted  him  who  had  modesty  and  agreeablcness ;  and  as, 
at  the  same  time,  he  was  very  jealous,  one  migiit  imafrinc  that 
his  wife,  who  had  a  right  to  be  equally  so,  would  have  led  no  easy 
lite.  But  it  is  evident  he  could  practise  very  generous  self- 
denial  ;  and  probably  the  married  portion  of  his  existence,  sup- 
posing Alcssandra's  sweet  countenance  not  to  have  belied  her, 
was  happy  on  both  sides.  He  was  beloved  by  his  family,  which 
is  never  the  case  with  the  unamiable.  Amonij  his  friends  were 
most  of  the  great  names  of  the  age,  including  a  world  of  ladies, 
and  the  whole  graceful  court  of  Guidobaldo  da  Montefeltro,  duke 
of  Urbino,  for  wiiich  Catiglione  wrote  his  book  of  the  GeniJeman 
(Tl  Cortegtano).  Raphael  addressed  him  a  sonnet,  and  Titian 
painted  his  likeness.  He  knew  Vittoria  Colonna,  and  Veronica 
da  Gambora,  and  Giulia  Gonzaga  (whom  the  Turks  would  have 
run  away  with),  and  Ippolita  Sforza,  the  beautiful  blue-stocking, 
who  set  Bandello  on  writing  his  novels,  and  Bembo,  and  Flami- 
nio,  and  Berni,  and  Molza,  and  Sannazzaro,  and  the  Medici  fam- 
ily, and  Vida,  and  Macchiavelli  ;  and  nobody  doubts  that  he 
might  have  shone  at  the  court  of  Leo  the  brightest  of  the  bright. 
But  he  thought  it  "  better  to  enjoy  a  little  in  peace,  than  seek 
after  much  with  trouble."*  He  cared  for  none  of  the  pleasures 
of  the  great,  except  building,  and  that  he  was  content  to  satisfy  in 
Cowley's  fashion,  with  "  a  small  house  in  a  large  garden."  He 
was  plain  in  his  diet,  disliked  ceremony,  and  was  frequently  ab- 
sorbed in  thought.  His  indignation  was  roused  by  mean  and 
brutal  vices  ;  but  he  took  a  large  and  liberal  view  of  human  na- 
ture in  general  ;  and,  if  he  was  somewhat  free  in  his  life,  must 
be  pardoned  for  the  custom  of  the  times,  for  his  charity  to  others, 
and  for  the  genial  disposition  which  made  him  an  enchanting  poet. 
Above  all,  he  was  an  affectionate  son  ;  lived  like  a  friend  with 
his  children  ;  and,  in  spite  of  his  tendency  to  pleasure,  supplied 
the  place  of  an  anxious  and  careful  father  to  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, who  idolized  him. 

*  Pigna,  I  Romanzi,  p.  119. 


320  ARIOSTO. 


"  Ornabat  pietas  et  grata  modeslia  vatem," 
wrote  his  brother  Gabriel, 

"  Sancta  fides,  dictique  memor,  munitaque  recto 
Justitia,  et  nullo  patientia  victa  labore, 
Et  constans  virtus  animi,  et  dementia  mitis, 
Ambitione  procul  pulsa  fasttisquc  tumore ; 
Credere  uti  posses  natum  felicibus  horis, 
Felici  fulgente  astro  Jovis  atque  Diones."* 

Devoted  tenderness  adorn'd  the  bard, 

And  grateful  modesty  and  grave  regard 

To  his  least  word,  and  justice  arm'd  with  right, 

And  patience  counting  every  labour  light, 

And  constancy  of  soul,  and  meekness  too, 

That  neither  pride  nor  worldly  wishes  knew. 

You  might  have  thought  him  born  when  there  concur 

The  sweet  star  and  the  strong,  Venus  and  Jupiter. 

His  son  Virginio,  and  others,  have  left  a  variety  of  anecdotes 
corroborating  points  in  his  character.  I  shall  give  them  all,  for 
they  put  us  into  his  company. 

It  is  recorded,  as  an  instance  of  his  reputation  for  honesty, 
that  an  old  kinsman,  a  clergyman,  who  was  afraid  of  being  poi- 
soned for  his  possessions,  would  trust  himself  in  no  other  hands  ; 
but  the  clergyman  was  his  own  grand-uncle  and  namesake,  prob- 
ably godfather ;  so  that  the  compliment  is  not  so  very  great. 

In  his  youth  he  underwent  a  long  rebuke  one  day  from  his  fa- 
ther without  saying  a  word,  though  a  satisfactory  answer  was  in 
his  power  ;  on  which  his  brother  Gabriel  expressing  his  surprise, 
he  said  that  he  was  thinking  all  the  time  of  a  scene  in  a  comedy 
he  was  writing,  for  which  the  paternal  lecture  afforded  an  excel- 
lent study. 

He  loved  gardening  better  than  he  understood  it ;  was  always 
shifting  his  plants,  and  destroying  the  seeds,  out  of  impatience  to 
see  them  germinate.  He  was  rejoicing  once  on  the  coming  up 
of  some  "  capers,"  which  he  had  been  visiting  every  day  to  see 
how  they  got  on,  when  it  turned  out  that  his  capers  were  elder- 
trees  ! 

*  Epicedium  on  his  brother's  death.  It  is  reprinted  (perhaps  for  the  first 
time  since  1582)  in  Mr.  Panizzi's  Appendix  to  the  Life,  in  his  first  volume, 
1*.  clxi. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  321 


He  was  perpetually  altering  his  verses.  Ilis  manuscripts  are 
full  of  corrections.  He  wrote  the  exordium  of  the  Orlando  over 
and  over  again  ;  and  at  last  could  only  be  satisfied  with  it  in  pro- 
portion as  it  was  not  his  own  ;  that  is  to  say,  in  proportion  as  it 
came  nearer  to  the  beautiful  passage  in  Dante  from  which  his 
ear  and  his  feelings  had  caught  it.* 

He,  however,  discovered  that  correction  was  not  always  im- 
provement. He  used  to  say,  it  was  with  verses  as  with  trees.  A 
plant  naturally  well  growing  might  be  made  perfect  by  a  little 
delicate  treatment ;  but  over-cultivation  destroyed  its  native 
grace.  In  like  manner,  you  might  perfect  a  happily-inspired 
verse  by  taking  away  any  little  fault  of  expression  ;  but  too  great 
a  polish  deprived  it  of  the  charm  of  the  first  conception.  It  was 
like  over-training  a  naturally  graceful  child.  If  it  be  wondered 
how  he  who  corrected  so  much  should  succeed  so  well,  even  to 
an  appearance  of  happy  negligence,  it  is  to  be  considered  that 
the  most  impulsive  writers  often  put  down  their  thoughts  too 
hastily,  then  correct,  and  re-correct  them  in  the  same  impatient 
manner  ;  and  so  have  to  bring  them  round,  by  as  many  steps,  to 
the  feeling  which  they  really  had  at  first,  though  they  were  too 
hasty  to  do  it  justice. 

Ariosto  would  have  altered  his  house  as  often  as  his  verses,  but 
did  not  find  it  so  convenient.  Somebody  wondering  that  he  con- 
tented himself  with  so  small  an  abode,  when  he  built  such  mag- 
nificent mansions  in  his  poetry,  he  said  it  was  easier  to  put  words 
together  than  blocks  of  stone. "j" 

*  "Le  donnc,  i  cavalier,  1'  arme,  gli  amori, 
Le  cortcsic,  le  audaci  imprese,  io  canto," 

is  Anosto's  commencement ; 

Ladies,  and  cavaliers,  and  loves,  and  arms, 
And  courtesies,  and  daring  deeds,  I  sing. 

In  Dante's  Purgatory  (canto  xiv.),  a  noble  Romagnese,  lamenting  the  degene- 
racy of  his  country,  calls  to  mind  with  graceful  and  touchii.j  regret, 

•'  Le  donne,  i  cavalier,  gli  afTanni  e  gli  agi, 
Che  inspiravano  amore  e  cortesia." 

The  ladies  and  the  knights,  the  cares  and  leisures, 
Breathing  around  them  love  and  courtesy. 

t  The  original  is  much  pithier,  but  I  cannot  find  equivalents  for  the  allitcra- 


333  AHIOSTO. 


He  liked  Virgil ;  commended  the  style  of  TibuUus ;  did  not 
care  for  Propertius ;  but  expressed  high  approbation  of  Catullus 
and  Horace.  I  suspect  his  favourite  to  have  been  Ovid.  His  son 
says  he  did  not  study  much,  nor  look  after  books  ;  but  this  may 
have  been  in  his  decline,  or  when  Virginio  first  took  to  observing 
him.  A  different  conclusion  as  to  study  is  to  be  drawn  from  the 
corrected  state  of  his  manuscripts,  and  the  variety  of  his  knowl- 
edge ;  and  with  regard  to  books,  he  not  only  mentions  the  libra- 
ry of  the  Vatican  as  one  of  his  greatest  temptations  to  visit 
Rome,  but  describes  himself,  with  all  the  gusto  of  a  book-worm, 
as  enjoying  them  in  his  chimney-corner.* 

To  intimate  his  secrecy  in  love-matters,  he  had  an  inkstand 
with  a  Cupid  on  it,  holding  a  finger  on  his  lips.  I  believe  it  is 
still  in  existence. ■]■  He  did  not  disclose  his  mistresses'  names,  as 
Dante  did,  for  the  purpose  of  treating  them  with  contempt ;  nor, 
on  the  other  hand,  does  he  appear  to  have  been  so  indiscriminate- 
ly gallant  as  to  be  fond  of  goitres. :j:  The  only  mistress  of  whom 
he  complained  he  concealed  in  a  Latin  appellation ;  and  of  her 
he  did  not  complain  with  scorn.  He  had  loved,  besides  Alessan- 
dra  Benucci,  a  lady  of  the  name  of  Ginevra  ;  the  mother  of  one 
of  his  children  is  recorded  as  a  certain  Orsolina  ;  and  that  of  the 


tion.  He  said,  "  Porvi  le  pietre  e  porvi  le  parole  non  6  il  medesimo." — Pigna, 
p.  119.  According  to  his  son,  however,  his  remark  was,  that  "  palaces  could  be 
made  in  poems  without  money."  He  probably  expressed  the  same  thing  in  dif- 
ferent ways  to  different  people. 

*  Vide  Sat.  iii.  "  ]Mi  sia  un  tempo,"  &c. ;  and  the  passage  in  Sat.  vii.  begin- 
ning "  Di  libri  antiqui." 

t  The  inkstand  which  Shelley  saw  at  Ferrara  (Essays  and  Letters,  p.  149) 
could  not  have  been  this ;  probably  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  wrong  one.  Doubts 
also,  after  what  we  know  of  the  tricks  practised  upon  visitors  of  Stratford-upon- 
Avon,  may  unfortunately  be  entertained  of  the  "plain  old  wooden  piece  of  fur- 
niture," the  arm-chair.  Shelley  describes  the  handwriting  of  Ariosto  as  "a 
small,  firm,  and  pointed  character,  expressing,  as  he  should  say,  a  strong  and 
keen,  but  circumscpoed  energy  of  mind."  Every  one  of  Shelley's  words  is 
always  worth  consideration  ;  but  handwritings  are  surely  equivocal  testimonies 
of  character;  they  depend  so  much  on  education,  on  times  and  seasons  and 
moods,  conscious  and  unconscious  wills,  &c.  What  would  be  said  by  an  auto- 
graphist  to  the  strange  old,  ungraceful,  slovenly  handwriting  of  Shakspeare  1 

t  See  vol.  i.  of  the  present  work,  pp.  16,  118,  and  126. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  323 

Other  was  named  Maria,  and  is  understood  to  liave  been  a  gov- 
erness in  his  fatlicr's  family.* 

He  ate  fast,  and  of  whatever  was  next  liim,  often  beginning 
with  the  bread  on  tlie  table  before  the  dishes  came  ;  and  he  would 
fmish  his  dinner  with  another  bit  of  bread.  "  Appctiva  le  rape," 
says  his  good  son  ;  videlicet,  he  was  fond  of  turnips.  In  his  fourth 
Satire,  he  mentions  as  a  favourite  dish,  turnips  seasoned  with  vin- 
egar and  boiled  ?uusl  (sapa),  which  seems,  not  unjustifiably,  to 
startle  Mr.  Panizzi.f  He  cared  so  little  for  good  eating,  that  he 
said  of  himself,  he  should  have  done  very  well  in  the  days  when 
people  lived  on  acorns.  A  stranger  coming  in  one  day  at  the 
dinner-hour,  he  ate  up  what  was  provided  for  both  ;  saying  after- 
wards, when  told  of  it,  that  the  gentleman  should  have  taken  care 
of  himself.  This  does  not  look  very  polite  ;  but  of  course  it  was 
said  in  jest.  His  son  attributed  this  carelessness  at  table  to  ab- 
sorption in  his  studies. 

He  carried  this  absence  of  mind  so  far,  and  was  at  the  same 
time  so  good  a  pedestrian,  that  Virginio  tells  us  he  once  walked 
all  the  way  from  Carpi  to  Ferrara  in  his  slippers,  owing  to  his 
havincr  strolled  out  of  doors  in  that  direction. 

The  same  biographers  who  describe  him  as  a  brave  soldier, 
add,  that  he  was  a  timid  horseman  and  seaman  ;  and  indeed  he 
appears  to  have  eschewed  every  kind  of  unnecessary  danger.  It 
was  a  maxim  of  his  to  be  the  last  in  going  out  of  a  boat.  I  know 
not  what  Orlando  would  have  said  to  this  ;  but  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  good  son  and  brother  avoided  no  pain  in  pursuit  of  his 
duty.  He  more  than  once  risked  his  life  in  the  service  of  govern- 
ment from  the  perils  of  travelling  among  war-makers  and  ban- 
ditti. Imagination  finds  something  worthy  of  itself  on  great  oc- 
casions, but  is  apt  to  discover  the  absurdity  of  staking  existence 
on  small  ones.  Ariosto  did  not  care  to  travel  out  of  Italy.  He 
preferred,  he  says,  going  round  the  earth  in  a  map  ;   visiting  coun- 

♦  Baruflaldi,  1807;  p.  105. 

t       "  In  casa  mia  mi  sa  meglio  una  rapa 
Ch'  io  cuoca,  e  cotta  s'  un  stccco  m'  inforco, 
E  mondo,  e  spargo  poi  di  aceto  e  sapa, 

Che  air  altrui  mensa  tordo,  starno,  o  porco 
SclvafTjrio." 

DO 


324  ARIOSTO. 


tries  without  having  to  pay  innkeepers,  and  ploughing  harmless 
seas  without  thunder  and  lightning.* 

His  outward  religion,  like  the  one  he  ascribed  to  his  friend 
Cardinal  Bembo,  was  "  that  of  other  people."  He  did  not  think 
it  of  use  to  disturb  their  belief:  yet  excused  rather  than  blamed 
Luther,  attributing  his  heresy  to  the  necessary  consequences  of 
mooting  points  too  subtle  for  human  apprehension. f  He  found  it 
impossible,  however,  to  restrain  his  contempt  of  bigotry  ;  and 
like  most  great  writers  in  Catholic  countries,  was  a  derider  of  the 
pretensions  of  devotees,  and  the  discords  and  hypocrisies  of  the 
convent.  He  evidently  laughed  at  Dante's  figments  about  the 
other  world  ;  not  at  the  poetry  of  them,  for  that  he  admired,  and 
sometimes  imitated,  but  at  the  superstition  and  presumption.  He 
turned  the  Florentine's  moon  into  a  depository  of  nonsense ;  and 
found  no  hell  so  bad  as  the  hearts  of  tyrants.  The  only  other 
people  he  put  into  the  infernal  regions  are  ladies  who  were  cruel 
to  their  lovers  !  He  had  a  noble  confidence  in  the  intentions  of 
his  Creator  ;  and  died  in  the  expectation  of  meeting  his  friends 
asrain  in  a  higher  state  of  existence. 

Of  Ariosto's  four  brothers,  one  became  a  courtier  at  Naples, 
another  a  clergyman,  another  an  envoy  to  the  Emperor  Charles 
the  Fifth  ;  and  the  fourth,  who  was  a  cripple  and  a  scholar,  lived 
with  Lodovico,  and  celebrated  his  memory.     His  two  sons,  whose 

*       "  Chi  \'Uole  andare,"  &:c.         Satira  iv. 
t       "  Se  Nicoletto  o  Fra  Martin  fan  segno 

D'  infedele  o  d'  eretico,  ne  accuse 

II  saper  troppo,  e  men  con  lor  mi  sdegno: 

Perchfe  salendo  lo  intelletto  in  suso 
Per  veder  Dio,  non  de'  parerci  strano 
Se  talor  cade  giu  cieco  e  confuso." 

Salira  vi. 

This  satire  was  addressed  to  Bembo.  The  cardinal  is  said  to  have  asked  a  visitor 
from  Germany  whether  Brother  Martin  really  believed  what  he  preached ;  and 
to  have  expressed  the  greatest  astonishment  when  told  that  he  did.  Cardinals 
were  then  what  augurs  were  in  the  time  of  Cicero — wondering  that  they  did 
not  burst  out  a-laughing  in  one  another's  faces.  This  was  bad  ;  but  inquisitors 
are  a  million  times  worse.  By  the  Nicoletto  here  mentioned  by  Ariosto  in  com- 
pany with  Luther,  we  are  to  understand  (according  to  the  conjecture  of  IMolini) 
a  Paduan  professor  of  the  name  of  Niccol6  Vernia,  who  was  accused  of  hold- 
ing the  Pantheistic  opinions  of  Averroes. 


HIS    LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  325 

names  were  Virginio  and  Gianbattista,  and  who  were  illcgitimato 
(the  reader  is  always  to  bear  in  mind  the  more  indulgent  customs 
of  Italy  in  matters  of  this  nature,  especially  in  the  poet's  time), 
became,  the  first  a  canon  in  the  cathedral  of  Ferrara,  and  the 
other  an  officer  in  the  army.  It  does  not  appear  that  he  had  any 
other  children. 

Ariosto's  renown  is  wholly  founded  on  the  Orlando  FunosOy 
though  he  wrote  satires,  comedies,  and  a  good  deal  of  miscellane- 
ous poetry,  all  occasionally  exhibiting  a  master-hand.  The  com- 
edies, however,  were  unfortunately  modelled  on  those  of  the  an- 
cients ;  and  the  constant  termination  of  the  verse  with  trisyl- 
lables contributes  to  render  them  tedious.  What  comedies  might 
he  not  have  written,  had  he  given  himself  up  to  existing  times 
and  manners  !* 

The  satires  are  rather  good-natured  epistles  to  his  friends, 
written  with  a  charming  ease  and  straightforwardness,  and  con- 
taining much  exquisite  sense  and  interesting  autobiography. 

On  his  lyrical  poetry  he  set  little  value ;  and  his  Latin  verse 
is  not  of  the  best  order.  Critics  have  expressed  their  surprise  at 
its  inferiority  to  that  of  contemporaries  inferior  to  him  in  genius  ; 
but  the  reason  lay  in  the  very  circumstance.  I  mean,  that  his 
large  and  liberal  inspiration  could  only  find  its  proper  vent  in  his 
own  language  ;  he  could  not  be  content  with  potting  up  little  del- 
icacies in  old-fashioned  vessels. 

The  Orlando  Furioso  is,  literally,  a  continuation  of  the  Orfctn- 
do  Innamorato  ;  so  much  so,  that  the  story  is  not  thoroughly  intelli- 
gible without  it.  This  was  probably  the  reason  of  a  circumstance 
that  would  be  otherwise  unaccountable,  and  that  was  ridiculously 

*  Take  a  specimen  of  this  leap-frog  versification  from  the  prologue  to  the 
Cassaria : — 

"  Q,uesta  commedia,  ch'  oggi  rscitdtavi 
Sari,  se  nol  sapete,  fe  la  Cassaria, 
Ch'  un  altra  volta,  gia.  vent'  anni  pdssano, 
Veder  si  fece  sopra  qucsti  piilpiti 
Ed  allora  assai  piacque  a  tutto  il  pdpolo, 
Ma  non  ne  ripost6  giJi.  degno  premio, 
Che  data  in  preda  a  gl'  importuni  ed  dvidi 
Stampator  fu,"  &c. 

This  through  five  comedies  in  five  acts ! 
1       PART  n.  7 


326  ARIOSTO. 


charged  against  him  as  a  proof  of  despairing  envy  by  the  despair, 
ing  envy  of  Sperone  ;  namely,  his  never  having  once  mentioned  the 
name  of  his  predecessor.  If  Ariosto  had  despaired  of  equalling 
Boiardo,  he  must  have  been  hopeless  of  reaching  posterity,  in  which 
case  his  silence  must  have  been  useless  ;  and,  in  any  case,  it  is 
clear  that  he  looked  on  himself  as  the  continuator  of  another's  nar- 
ration. But  Boiardo  was  so  popular  when  he  wrote,  that  the  very 
silence  shews  he  must  have  thought  the  mention  of  his  name  super- 
fluous.  Still  it  is  curious  that  he  never  should  have  alluded  to  it  in 
the  course  of  the  poem.  It  could  not  have  been  from  any  dislike  to 
the  name  itself,  or  the  family ;  for  in  his  Latin  poems  he  has  eu- 
logised the  hospitality  of  the  house  of  Boiardo.* 

The  Furioso  continued  not  only  what  Boiardo  did,  but  what  he 
intended  to  do  ;  for  as  its  subject  is  Orlando's  love,  and  knight- 
errantry  in  general,  so  its  object  was  to  extol  the  house  of  Este, 
and  deduce  it  from  its  fabulous  ancestor  Ru^ijiero.  Orlando  is 
the  open,  Ruggiero  the  covert  hero ;  and  almost  all  the  incidents 
of  this  supposed  irregular  poem,  which,  as  Panizzi  has  shewn,  is 
one  of  the  most  regular  in  the  world,  go  to  crown  with  triumph 
and  wedlock  the  originator  of  that  unworthy  race.  This  is  done 
on  the  old  groundwork  of  Charlemagne  and  his  Paladins,  of  the 
treacheries  of  the  house  of  Gan  of  Maganza,  and  of  the  wars  of 
the  Saracens  against  Christendom.  Bradamante,  the  Amazonian 
intended  of  Ruggiero,  is  of  the  same  race  as  Orlando,  and  a  great 
overthrower  of  infidels.  Ruggiero  begins  with  being  an  infidel 
himself,  and  is  kept  from  the  wars,  like  a  second  Achilles,  by 
the  devices  of  an  anxious  guardian,  but  ultimately  fights,  is  con- 
verted, and  marries  ;  and  Orlando  all  the  while  slays  his  thou- 
sands, as  of  old,  loves,  goes  mad  for  jealousy,  is  the  foolishest 
and  wisest  of  mankind  (somewhat  like  the  poet  himself)  ;  and 
crowns  the  glory  of  Ruggiero,  not  only  by  being  present  at  his 
marriage,  but  putting  on  his  spurs  with  his  own  hand  when  he 
goes  forth  to  conclude  the  war  by  the  death  of  the  king  of 
Algiers. 

The  great  charm,  however,  of  the  Orlando  Furioso  is  not  in 
its  knight-errantry,  or  its  main  plot,  or  the  cunning  interweave- 
ment  of  its  minor  ones,  but  in  its  endless  variety,  truth,  force, 

♦  In  the  verses  entitled  Bacchi  Statua. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  321 


and  animal  spirits  ;  in  its  fidelity  to  actual  nature  while  it  keeps 
within  the  hounds  of  the  probahle,  and  its  no  less  enchanting  ver- 
isimilitude during  its  wildest  sallies  of  imagination.  At  one  mo- 
ment we  are  in  the  midst  of  flesh  and  blood  like  ourselves  ;  a4  the 
next  with  fairies  and  goblins  ;  at  the  next  in  a  tremendous  battle  or 
tempest ;  then  in  one  of  the  loveliest  of  solitudes  ;  then  liearino-  a 
tragedy,  then  a  comedy  ;  then  mystified  in  some  enchanted  pal- 
ace ;  then  riding,  dancing,  dining,  looking  at  pictures ;  then 
again  descending  to  the  depths  of  the  earth,  or  soaring  to  the 
moon,  or  seeing  lovers  in  a  ijlade,  or  witnessing  the  extravajrances 
of  the  great  jealous  hero  Orlando ;  and  the  music  of  an  enchant- 
ing style  perpetually  attends  us,  and  the  sweet  face  of  Angelica 
glances  here  and  there  like  a  bud  :  and  there  are  gallantries  of 
all  kinds,  and  stories  endless,  and  honest  tears,  and  joyous  bursts 
of  laughter,  and  bsardings  for  all  base  opinions,  and  no  bigotry, 
and  reverence  for  whatsoever  is  venerable,  and  candour  exqui- 
site, and  the  happy  interwoven  names  of  "  Angelica  and  Medoro," 
young  for  ever. 

But  so  great  a  work  is  not  to  be  dismissed  with  a  mere  rhap- 
sody of  panegyric.  Ariosto  is  inferior,  in  some  remarkable 
respects,  to  his  predecessors  Pulci  and  Boiardo.  His  characters, 
for  the  most  part,  do  not  interest  us  as  much  as  theirs  by  their 
variety  and  good  fellowship  ;  he  invented  none  as  Boiardo  did, 
with  the  exception,  indeed,  of  Orlando's,  as  modified  by  jealousy; 
and  he  has  no  passage,  I  think,  equal  in  pathos  to  that  of  the 
struggle  at  Roncesvalles  ;  for  though  Orlando's  jealousy  is  pa- 
thetic, as  well  as  appalling,  the  effects  of  it  are  confined  to  one 
person,  and  disputed  by  his  excessive  strength.  Ariosto  has 
taken  all  tenderness  out  of  Angelica,  except  that  of  a  kind  of 
boarding-school  first  love  (which,  however,  as  hereafter  intimated, 
may  have  simplified  and  improved  her  general  effect),  and  he  has 
omitted  all  that  was  amusing  in  the  character  of  Astolfo.  Knight- 
errantry  has  fallen  off  a  little  in  his  hands  from  its  first  youthful 
and  trusting  freshness  ;  more  sophisticate  times  are  opening  upon 
us ;  and  satire  more  frequently  and  bitterly  interferes.  The 
licentious  passages  (though  never  gross  in  words,  like  those  of  his 
contemporaries,)  are  not  redeemed  by  sentiment  as  in  Boiardo  ; 
and  it  seems  to  me,  that  Ariosto  hardly  improved  so  much  as  he 


328  ARIOSTO. 


might  have  done  upon  his  predecessor's  imitations  of*  the  classics. 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that,  upon  the  whole,  he  had  better  have 
left  them  alone,  and  depended  entirely  on  himself.     Shelley  says, 
he  has  too  much  fighting  and  "  revenge,"* — which  is  true  ;  but 
the  revenge  was  only  among  his  knights.     He  was  himself  (like 
my  admirable  friend)  one  of  the  most  forgiving  of  men  ;   and  the 
fighting  was  the  taste  of  the  age,  in  which  chivalry  was  still 
flourishing  in  the  shape  of  such  men  as  Bayard,  and   ferocity  in 
men  like  Gaston  de  Foix.     Ariosto  certainly  did  not  anticipate, 
any  more  than  Shakspeare  did,  that  spirit  of  human  amelioration 
which  has  ennobled  the  present  age.     He  thought  only  of  reflect- 
ing nature  as  he  found  it.     He  is  sometimes  even  as  uninteresting 
as  he  found  other  people  ;  but  the  tiresome  passages,  thank  God, 
all  belong  to  the  house  of   Este  !     His  panegyrics  of  Ippolito 
and  his  ancestors  recoiled  on  the  poet  with  a  retributive  dulness. 
^  But  in  all  the  rest  there  is  a  wonderful   invigoration  and  en- 
largement.    The  genius  of  romance  has  increased  to  an  extraor- 
dinary degree  in  power,  if  not  in  simplicity.     Its  shoulders  have 
grown  broader,  its  voice  louder  and  more  sustained ;   and  if  it  has 
lost  a  little  on  the  sentimental  side,  it  has  gained  prodigiously,  not 
only  in  animal  vigour,  but,  above  all,  in  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture, and  a  brave  and  joyous  candour  in  shewing  it.     The  poet 
takes  a  universal,  an  acute,   and,  upon  the  whole,   a   cheerful 
view,  like  the  sun  itself,  of  all   which  the  sun  looks  on  ;   and 
readers  are  charmed  to  see  a  knowledge  at  once  so  keen  and  so 
happy.     Herein  lies  the  secret  of  Ariosto's  greatness ;  which  is 
great,  not  because  it  has  the  intensity  of  Dante,  or  the  incessant 
thought  and  passion  of  Shakspeare,  or  the  dignified  imagination 
of  Milton,  to  all  of  whom  he  is  far  inferior  in  sustained  excellence, 
but  because  he  is  like  very  Nature  herself.     Whether  great, 
small,  serious,  pleasurable,  or  even  indiflerent,  he  still  has  the 
life,  ease,  and  beauty  of  the  operations  of  the  daily  planet.     Even 
where  he  seems  dull  and  commonplace,  his  brightness   and  orig- 
inality at  other  times  make  it  look  like  a  good-natured  conde- 
scension to  our  own  common  habits  of  thought  and  discourse  ;  as 
though  he  did  it  but  on  purpose  to  leave  nothing  unsaid  that 

*  Essays  and  Letters,  ut  sup.  vol.  ii.  p.  125, 


HIS    LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  329 

could  bring  him  witliin  the  category  of  ourselves.  His  charm- 
ing manner  intimates  that,  instead  of  taking  thought,  he  chooses 
to  take  pleasure  with  us,  and  compare  old  notes ;  and  we  arc  de- 
lighted that  he  does  us  so  much  honour,  and  makes,  as  it  were, 
Ariostos  of  us  all.  He  is  Shakspearian  in  going  all  lengths 
with  Nature  as  he  found  her,  not  blinking  the  fact  of  evil,  yet 
finding  a  "  soul  of  goodness"  in  it,  and,  at  the  same  time,  never 
compromising  the  worth  of  noble  and  generous  qualities.  His 
young  and  handsome  Medoro  is  a  pitiless  slayer  of  his  enemies ; 
but  they  were  his  master's  enemies,  and  he  would  have  lost  his 
life,  even  to  preserve  his  dead  body.  His  Orlando,  for  all  his 
wisdom  and  greatness,  runs  mad  for  love  of  a  coquette,  who 
triumphs  over  warriors  and  kings,  only  to  fall  in  love  herself 
with  an  obscure  lad.  His  kings  laugh  with  all  their  hearts, 
like  common  people;  his  mourners  weep  like  such  unaffected 
children  of  sorrow,  that  they  must  needs  '•  swallow  some  of  their 
tears."*  His  heroes,  on  the  arrival  of  intelligence  that  excites 
them,  leap  out  of  bed  and  write  letters  before  they  dress,  from 
natural  impatience,  thinking  nothing  of  their  "  dignity."  When 
Astolfo  blows  the  magic  horn  which  drives  every  body  out  of  the 
castle  of  Atlantes,  '•  not  a  mouse"  stays  behind  ; — not,  as  Hoole 
and  such  critics  think,  because  the  poet  is  here  writing  ludicrous- 
ly, but  because  he  uses  the  same  image  seriously,  to  give  an  idea 
of  desolation,  as  Shakspeare  in  Hamlet  does  to  give  that  of  si- 
lence, when  "not  a  mouse  is  stirring."  Instead  of  being  mere 
comic  writing,  such  incidents  are  in  the  highest  epic  taste  of 
the  meeting  of  extremes, — of  the  impartial  eye  with  which  Na- 
ture regards  high  and  low.  So,  give  Ariosto  his  hippogriff,  and 
other  marvels  with  which  he  has  enriched  the  stock  of  romance, 
and  Nature  takes  as  much  care  of  the  verisimilitude  of  their  ac- 
tions, as  if  she  had  made  them  herself.  His  hippogriff  returns, 
like  a  common  horse,  to  the  stable  to  which  he  has  been  accus- 

♦  "  Le  lacrime  scendcan  tra  gigli  e  r6se, 

L&.  dove  avvien  ch'  alcunc  s6  n'  inghiozzi." 

Canto  xii.  st.  94. 
Wliich  has  been  well  translated  by  Mr.  Rose : 

"  And  between  rose  and  lily,  from  her  eyes 
Tears  fall  so  fast,  she  needs  must  swallow  some." 


330  ARIOSTO. 


tomed.  His  enchanter,  who  is  gifted  with  the  power  of  surviving 
decapitation  and  pursuing  the  decapitator  so  long  as  a  fated  hair 
remains  on  his  head,  turns  deadly  palo  in  the  face  when  it  is 
scalped,  and  falls  lifeless  from  his  horse.  His  truth,  indeed,  is  so 
genuine,  and  at  the  same  time  his  style  is  so  unaffected,  sometimes 
so  familiar  in  its  grace,  and  sets  us  so  much  at  ease  in  his  company, 
that  the  familiarity  is  in  danger  of  bringing  him  into  contempt 
with  the  inexperienced,  and  the  truth  of  being  considered  old  and 
obvious,  because  the  mode  of  its  introduction  makes  it  seem  an 
old  acquaintance.  When  Voltaire  was  a  young  man,  and  (to 
Anglicise  a  favourite  Gallic  phrase)  fancied  he  had  profounded 
every  thing  deep  and  knowing,  he  thought  nothing  of  Ariosto. 
Some  years  afterwards  he  took  him  for  the  first  of  grotesque 
writers,  but  nothing  more.  At  last  he  pronounced  him  equally 
"entertaining  and  sublime,  and  humbly  apologised  for  his  error." 
Foscolo  quotes  this  passage  from  the  Dictionnaire  PhUosophique  ; 
and  adds  another  from  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  in  which  the  painter 
speaks  of  a  similar  inability  on  his  own  part,  when  young,  to  en- 
joy the  perfect  nature  of  Raphael,  and  the  admiration  and  aston- 
ishment which,  in  his  riper  years,  he  grew  to  feel  for  it."*" 

The  excessive  "  wildness"  attributed  to  Ariosto  is  not  wilder 
than  many  things  in  Homer,  or  even  than  some  things  in  Virgil 
(such  as  the  transformation  of  ships  into  sea-nymphs).  The  reason 
why  it  has  been  thought  so  is,  that  he  rendered  them  more  pop- 
ular by  mixing  them  with  satire,  and  thus  brought  them  more 
universally  into  notice.  One  main  secret  of  the  delight  they 
give  us  is  their  being  poetical  comments,  as  it  were,  on  fancies 
and  metaphors  of  our  own.  Thus,  we  say  of  a  suspicious  man, 
that  he  is  suspicion  itself;  Ariosto  turns  him  accordingly  into  an 
actual  being  of  that  name.  We  speak  of  the  flights  of  the  poets  ; 
Ariosto  makes  them  literally  flights — flights  on  a  hippogriff,  and 
to  the  moon.  The  moon,  it  has  been  said,  makes  lunatics  ;  he 
accordingly  puts  a  man's  wits  into  that  planet.  Vice  deforms 
beauty  ;  therefore  his  beautiful  enchantress  turns  out  to  be  an 
old  hag.     Ancient  defeated  empires  are   sounds   and  emptiness ; 

*  Essay  on  the  Nai-raiive  and  Romantic  Poems  of  the  Italians,  in  the  Quar- 
terly Review,  vol.  xxi. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS,  331 

therefore  the  Assyrian  and  Persian  monarchies  hccome,  in  his 
limbo  of  vanities,  a  heap  of  positive  bladders.  Youth  is  head- 
strong, and  kissing  goes  by  favour  ;  so  Angelica,  queen  of  Catliay, 
and  beauty  of  tiie  world,  jilts  warriors  and  kings,  and  marries  a 
common  soldier. 

And  what  a  creature  is  this  Angelica  !  what  effect  has  she  not 
had  upon  the  world  in  spite  of  all  her  faults,  nay,  probably  by 
very  reason  of  them  !  I  know  not  whether  it  has  been  remarked 
before,  but  it  appears  to  me,  that  the  charm  which  every  body 
has  felt  in  the  story  of  Angelica  consists  mainly  in  that  very  fact 
of  her  being  nothing  but  a  beauty  and  a  woman,  dashed  even 
with  coquetry,  which  renders  her  so  inferior  in  character  to  most 
heroines  of  romance.  Her  interest  is  founded  on  nothinij  exclu- 
sive  or  prejudiced.  It  is  not  addressed  to  any  special  class. 
She  might  or  might  not  have  been  liked  by  this  person  or  that ; 
but  the  world  in  general  will  adore  her,  because  nature  has  made 
them  to  adore  beauty  and  the  sex,  apart  from  prejudices  right  or 
wrong.  Youth  will  attribute  virtues  to  her,  whether  she  has 
them  or  not ;  middle-age  be  unable  to  help  gazing  on  her;  old- 
age  dote  on  her.  She  is  womankind  itself  in  form  and  substance; 
and  that  is  a  stronger  thing,  for  the  most  part,  than  all  our  fig- 
ments about  it.  Two  musical  names,  "  Angelica  and  Medoro,"' 
have  become  identified  in  the  minds  of  poetical  readers  with  the 
honeymoon  of  youthful  passion. 

The  only  false  and  insipid  fiction  I  can  call  to  mind  in  the  Or- 
lando Furioso  is  that  of  the  "  swans"  who  rescue  "  medals"  from 
the  river  of  oblivion  (canto  xxxv.).  It  betrays  a  singular  forget- 
fulness  of  the  poet's  wonted  verisimilitude  ;  for  what  metaphor 
can  reconcile  us  to  swans  taking  an  interest  in  medals  ?  Pop- 
ular belief  had  made  them  singers;  but  it  was  not  a  wise  step  to 
convert  them  into  antiquaries. 

Ariosto's  animal  spirits^  and  the  brilliant  hurry  and  abundance 
of  his  incidents,  blind  a  careless  reader  to  his  endless  particular 
beauties,  which,  though  he  may  too  often  "  describe  instead  of 
paint"  (on  account,  as  Foscolo  says,  of  his  writing  to  the  many), 
shew  that  no  man  could  paint  better  when  he  chose.  The  bo- 
soms of  his  females  "  come   and  go,  like  the  waves  on  the  sea- 


333  ARIOSTO. 


coast  in  summer  airs."*  His  witches  draw  the  fish  out  of  the 
water 

"  With  simple  words  and  a  pure  warbled  spell. "t 

He  borrows  the  word  "  painting"  itself,  like  a  true  Italian  and 
friend  of  Raphael  and  Titian,  to  express  the  commiseration  in 
the  faces  of  the  blest  for  the  sufferings  of  mortality  : 

"  Dipinte  di  pietade  il  viso  pio."t 
Their  pious  looks  painted  with  tenderness. 

Jesus  is  very  finely  called,  in  the  same  passage,  "  il  sempiterno 
Amante,"  the  eternal  Lover.     The  female  sex  are  the 

"  Scliiera  gentil  che  pur  adorna  il  mondo."§ 
The  gentle  bevy  that  adorns  the  world. 

He  paints  cabinet  pictures  like  Spenser,  in  isolated  stanzas,  with 
a  pencil  at  once  solid  and  light ;  as  in  the  instance  of  the  charm- 
ing one  that  tells  the  story  of  Mercury  and  his  net ;  how  he 
watched  the  Goddess  of  Flowers  as  she  issued  forth  at  dawn  with 
her  lap  full  of  roses  and  violets,  and  so  threw  the  net  over  her 
"one  day,"  and  "  took  her  ;" 

"  im  di  lo  prcsse."Il 

But  he  does  not  confine  himself  to  these  gentle  pictures.  He 
has  many  as  strong  as  Michael  Angelo,  some  as  intense  as  Dante. 
He  paints  the  conquest  of  America  in  five  words  : 

"  Vecjgio  da  dicce  cacciar  mille."ir 

I  see  thousands 
Hunted  by  tens. 

He  compares  the  noise  of  a  tremendous  battle  heard  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood to  the  sound  of  the  cataracts  of  the  Nile  : 

*  "  Vengono  e  van,  come  onda  al  primo  margo 
Quando  piacevole  aura  il  mar  combatte." 

Canto  vii.  st.  14. 

t  "  Con  semplici  parole  e  puri  incanti." 

Canto  vi.  st.  38. 
+  Canto  xiv.  st.  79.  §  Canto  xxviii.  st.  98. 

II  Canto  XV.  St.  57.  U  Id.  st.  23, 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  333 


"  un  alto  suon  ch'  a  quel  s'  accorda 
Con  chc  i  vicin'  cadendo  il  Nil  assorda."* 

He  "  scourges"  ships  at  sea  with  tempests — say  rather  the  "  mis- 
erable  seamen  ;"  while  night-time  grows  blacker  and  blacker  on 
the  "exasperated  waters. "f 

When  Ilodomont  has  plunged  into  the  thick  of  Paris,  and  is 
carrying  every  thing  before  him  ("  like  a  serpent  that  has  newly 
cast  his  skin,  and  goes  shaking  his  three  tongues  under  his  eyes 
of  fire"),  he  makes  this  tremendous  hero  break  the  middle  of  the 
palace-gate  into  a  huge  "  window,"  and  look  through  it  with  a 
countenance  which  is  suddenly  beheld  by  a  crowd  of  faces  as  pale 
as  death  : 

"E  dciitro  fatto  1'  ha  tanta  fincstra, 
Chc  ben  vederc  c  vcduto  esscr  puote 
Dai  visi  iinpressi  di  color  di  morte    t 

The  whole  description  of  Orlando's  jealousy  and  growing  mad. 
ness  is  Shaksperian  for  passion  and  circumstance,  as  the  reader 
may  see  even  in  the  prose  abstract  of  it  in  this  volume  ;  and  his 
sublimation  of  a  suspicious  king  into  suspicion  itself  (which  it  also 
contains)  is  as  grandly  and  felicitously  audacious  as  any  thing 
ever  invented  by  poet.  Spenser  thought  so  ;  and  has  imitated 
and  emulated  it  in  one  of  his  own  finest  passages.  Ariosto  has 
not  the  spleen  and  gall  of  Dante,  and  therefore  his  satire  is  not  so 
tremendous  ;  yet  it  is  very  exquisite,  as  all  the  world  have  ac- 
knowledged in  the  instances  of  the  lost  things  found  in  the  moon, 
and  the  angel  who  finds  Discord  in  a  convent.  He  does  not  take 
things  so  much  to  heart  as  Chaucer.  He  has  nothing  so  pro- 
foundly pathetic  as  our  great  poet's  Griselda.  Yet  many  a  gen- 
tle eye  has  moistened  at  the  conclusion  of  the  story  of  Isabella  ; 
and  to  recur  once  more  to  Orlando's  jealousy,  all  who  have  ex- 
perienced that  passion  will  feel  it  shake  them.  I  have  read  some- 
where of  a  visit  paid  to  Voltaire  by  an  Italian  gentleman,  who  re- 
cited it  to  him,  and  who  (being  moved  perhaps  by  the  recollection 
of  some  passage  in  his  own  history)  had  the  tears  all  the  while 
pouring  down  his  cheeks. 

♦  Canto  xvi.  st.  5C.  t  Canto  xviii.  st.  142. 

J  Canto  xvii.  st.  12. 


334  ARIOSTO. 


Such  is  the  poem  which  the  gracious  and  good  Cardinal  Ippo- 
lito  designated  as  a  "  parcel  of  trumpery."  It  had,  indeed,  to 
contend  with  more  slights  than  his.  Like  all  originals,  it  was  obli- 
ged to  wait  for  the  death  of  the  envious  and  the  self-loving,  before 
it  acquired  a  popularity  which  surpassed  all  precedent.  Foscolo 
says,  that  Macchiavelli  and  Ariosto,  "  the  two  writers  of  that  age 
who  really  possessed  most  excellence,  were  the  least  praised  du- 
ring their  lives.  Bembo  was  approached  in  a  posture  of  adora- 
tion and  fear ;  the  infamous  Aretino  extorted  a  fulsome  letter  of 
praises  from  the  great  and  the  learned.''*  He  might  have  added, 
that  the  writer  most  in  request  "  in  the  circles"  was  a  gentleman 
of  the  name  of  Bernardo  Accolti,  then  called  the  Unique,  now 
never  heard  of.  Ariosto  himself  eulogised  him  among  a  shoal  of 
writers,  half  of  whose  names  have  perished  ;  and  who  most  like- 
ly included  in  that  half  the  men  who  thought  he  did  not  praise 
them  enough.  For  such  was  the  fact !  I  allude  to  the  charming 
invention  in  his  last  canto,  in  which  he  supposes  himself  welcomed 
home  after  a  long  voyage.  Gay  imitated  it  very  pleasantly  in 
an  address  to  Pope  on  the  conclusion  of  his  Homer.  Some  of 
the  persons  thus  honoured  by  Ariosto  were  vexed,  it  is  said,  at 
not  being  praised  highly  enough  ',  others  at  seeing  so  many  praised 
in  their  company ;  some  at  being  left  out  of  the  list ;  and  some 
others  at  being  mentioned  at  all !  These  silly  people  thought  it 
taking  too  great  a  liberty  !  The  poor  flies  of  a  day  did  not  know 
that  a  god  had  taken  them  in  hand  to  give  them  wings  for  eter- 
nity. Happily  for  them  the  names  of  most  of  these  mighty  per- 
sonages  are  not  known.  One  or  two,  however,  took  care  to  make 
posterity  laugh.  Trissino,  a  very  great  man  in  his  day,  and  the 
would-be  restorer  of  the  ancient  epic,  had  the  face,  in  return  for 
the  poet's  too  honourable  mention  of  him,  to  speak,  in  his  own 
absurd  verses,  of  "  Ariosto,  with  that  Furioso  of  his,  which  pleases 
the  vulgar :" 

"  L'  Ariosto 
Con  quel  Furioso  suo  che  place  al  volgo." 

^^  His  poem,"  adds  Panizzi,  "  has  the  merit  of  not  having  pleased 
any  body."-]-     A  sullen  critic,  Sperone  (the  same  that  afterwards 

*  Essay,  as  above,  p.  534.  t  Boiardo  and  Ariosto,  vol.  iv,  p.  318. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  335 

plagued  Tasso),  was  so  disappointcil  at  being  left  out,  that  he  be- 
came the  poet's  bitter  enemy.  He  talked  of  Ariosto  taking  him- 
self for  a  swan  and  "  dying  like  a  goose"  (the  allusion  was  to 
the  fragment  he  left  called  the  Five  Cantos).  What  has  become 
of  the  swan  Sperone  ?  Bernardo  Tasso,  Torquato's  father,  mad?, 
a  more  reasonable  (but  which  turned  out  to  be  an  unfounded) 
coiiiplaint,  that  Ariosto  had  established  a  precedent  which  poets 
would  find  inconvenient.  And  Macchiavelli,  like  the  true  genius 
he  was,  expressed  a  goodnatured  and  flattering  regret  that  his 
iriend  Ariosto  liad  left  him  out  of  his  list  of  congratulators,  in  a 
work  which  was  "  fine  throughout,"  and  in  some  places  wonder- 
ful.'** 

The  great  Galileo  knew  Ariosto  nearly  by  heart. f 
He  is  a  poet  whom  it  may  require  a  certain  amount  of  animal 
spirits  to  relish  thoroughly.  The  air  of  his  verse  must  agree 
with  you  before  you  can  perceive  all  its  freshness  and  vitality. 
But  if  read  with  any  thing  like  Italian  sympathy,  with  allowance 
for  times  and  manners,  and  with  a  sense  as  well  as  admittance  of 
the  different  kinds  of  the  beautiful  in  poetry  (two  very  diflierent 
things),  you  will  be  almost  as  much  charmed  with  the  "  divine 
Ariosto"  as  his  countrymen  have  been  for  ages. 

♦  jLi/e,  in  Panizzi,  p.  ix. 

t  Opere  di  Galileo,  Padova,  1744,  vol.  i.  p.  Ixxii.    . 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ANGELICA. 


Argument. 

Part  I. — Angelica  flies  frcm  the  camp  of  Charlemagne  into  a  wood,  where 
she  meets  with  a  number  of  her  suitors.  Description  of  a  beautiful  natural 
bower.  She  claims  the  protection  of  Sacripant,  who  is  overthrown,  in  passing, 
by  an  unknown  warrior  that  turns  out  to  be  a  damsel.  Rinaldo  comes  up,  and 
AngeUca  flies  from  both.  She  meets  a  pretended  hermit,  who  takes  her  to  some 
rocks  in  the  sea,  and  casts  her  asleep  by  magic.  They  are  seized  and  carried 
off  by  some  mariners  from  the  isle  of  Ebuda,  where  she  is  exposed  to  be  de- 
voured by  an  ore,  but  is  rescued  by  a  knight  on  a  winged  horse.  He  descends 
with  her  into  a  beautiful  spot  on  the  coast  of  Brittany,  but  suddenly  misses  both 
horse  and  lady.  He  is  lured,  with  the  other  knights,  into  an  enchanted  palace, 
whither  Angelica  comes  too.     She  quits  it,  and  again  eludes  her  suitors. 

Part  II. — Cloridan  and  Medoro,  two  Moorish  youths,  after  a  battle  with  the 
Christians,  resolve  to  find  the  dead  body  of  their  master,  King  Dardinel,  and 
bury  it.  They  kill  many  sleepers  as  they  pass  through  the  enemy's  camp,  and 
then  discover  the  body ;  but  are  surprised,  and  left  for  dead  themselves.  Me- 
doro, however,  survives  his  friend,  and  is  cured  of  his  wounds  by  Angelica, 
who  happens  to  come  up.  She  falls  in  love  with  and  marries  him.  Account 
of  their  honeymoon  in  the  woods.  They  quit  them  to  set  out  for  Cathay,  and 
see  a  madman  on  the  road. 

Part  III. — When  the  lovers  had  quitted  their  abode  in  the  wood,  Orlando,  by 
chance,  arrived  there,  and  saw  every  where,  all  round  him,  in-doors  and  out-of- 
doors,  inscriptions  of  '•  Angelica  and  Medoro."  He  tries  in  vain  to  disbelieve 
his  eyes ;  finally,  learns  the  whole  story  from  the  owner  of  the  cottage,  and 
loses  his  senses.  What  he  did  in  that  state,  both  in  the  neighbourhood  and  afar 
off,  where  he  runs  naked  through  the  country.  His  arrival  among  his  brother 
Paladins ;  and  the  result. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ANGELICA 

(continued  by  ariosto  from  boiardo.*) 


PART    THE    FIRST. 
ANGELICA    AND    HER    SUITORS. 

Angelica,  not  at  all  approving  her  consignment  to  the  care  of 
Namo  by  Charlemagne,  for  the  purpose  of  being  made  the  prize 
of  the  conqueror,  resolved  to  escape  before  the  battle  with  the 
Pagans.  She  accordingly  mounted  her  palfrey  at  once,  and  fled 
with  all  her  might  till  she  found  herself  in  a  wood. 

Scarcely  had  she  congratulated  herself  on  being  in  a  place  of 
refuge,  when  she  met  a  warrior  full  armed,  whom  with  terror  she 
recognised  to  be  the  once-loved  but  now  detested  Rinaldo.  He 
had  lost  his  horse,  and  was  looking  for  it.  Angelica  turned  her 
palfrey  aside  instantly,  and  galloped  whithersoever  it  chose  to 
carry  her,  till  she  came  to  a  river-side,  where  she  found  another  of 
her  suitors,  Ferragus.  She  called  loudly  upon  him  for  help. 
Rinaldo  had  recognised  her  in  turn ;  and  though  he  was  on  foot, 
she  knew  he  would  be  coming  after  her. 

Come  after  her  he  did.  A  tight  between  the  rivals  ensued  ; 
and  the  beauty,  taking  advantage  of  it,  again  fled  away — fled 
like  the  fawn,  that,  having  seen  its  mother's  throat  seized  by  a 
wild  beast,  scours  through  the  woods,  and  fancies  herself  every 
instant  in  the  jaws  of  the  monster.  Every  sweep  of  the  wind  in 
the  trees — every  shadow  across  her  path — drove  her  with  sudden 

*  Sec  p.  'A2  of  the  present  volume. 


340  THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 

starts  into  the  wildest  cross-roads ;  for  it  made  her  feel  as  if  Ri- 
naldo  was  at  her  shoulders.* 

Slackening  her  speed  by  degrees,  she  wandered  afterwards  she 
knew  not  whither,  till  she  came,  next  day,  to  a  pleasant  wood  that 
was  gently  stirring  with  the  breeze.  There  were  two  streams  in 
it,  which  kept  the  grass  always  green  ;  and  when  you  listened, 
you  heard  them  softly  running  among  the  pebbles  with  a  broken 
murmur. 

Thinking  herself  secure  at  last,  and  indeed  feeling  as  if  she 
were  now  a  thousand  miles  off  from  Rinaldo — tired  also  with  her 
long  journey,  and  with  the  heat  of  the  summer  sun — she  here 
determined  to  rest  herself.  She  dismounted ;  and  having  re- 
lieved her  horse  of  his  bridle,  and  let  him  wander  away  in  the 
fresh  pasture,  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  a  lovely  natural  bower, 
formed  of  wild  roses,  which  made  a  sort  of  little  room  by  the 
water's  side.  The  bower  beheld  itself  in  the  water  ;  trees  en- 
closed it  overhead,  on  the  three  other  sides ;  and  in  the  middle 
was  room  enough  to  lie  down  on  the  sward  ;  while  the  whole  was 
so  thickly  trellised  with  the  leaves  and  branches,  that  the  sun- 
beams themselves  could  not  enter,  much  less  any  prying  sight. 
The  place  invited  her  to  rest ;  and  accordingly  the  beautiful 
creature  laid  herself  down,  and  so  gathering  herself,  as  it  were, 
together,  went  fast  asleep. "j* 

*  "  Fugge  tra  selve  spaventose  e  scure, 
Per  lochi  inabitati,  ernii  e  selvaggi. 
II  mover  de  le  frondi  e  di  verzure 

Che  di  cerri  sentia,  d'  olmi  e  di  faggi, 
Fatto  le  avea  con  subite  paure 

Trovar  di  quh  e  di  \h  strani  viaggi ; 
Ch'  ad  ogni  ombra  veduta  o  in  monte  o  in  valle 
Temea  Rinaldo  aver  sempre  alle  spalle." 

Canto  i.  st.  33. 

t  "  Ecco  non  lungi  un  bel  cespuglio  vede 

Di  spin  iioriti  e  di  vermiglie  rose, 
Che  de  le  liquide  onde  al  specchio  siede, 

Cliiuso  dal  Sol  fra  1'  alte  quercie  ombrose; 
Cosi  vote  nel  mezo,  che  concede 

Fresca  stanza  fra  1'  ombre  piu  nascose  : 
E  la  foglie  coi  rami  in  modo  e  mista, 
Che  '1  Sol  non  v'  entra,  non  che  minor  vista. 


THE  ADVEXTURES   OP   ANGELICA.  341 

She  had  not  slept  long  when  she  was  awakened  by  the  tramp- 
ling of  a  horse ;  and  getting  up,  and  looking  cautiously  through 
the  trees,  she  perceived  a  cavalier,  who  dismounted  from  his 
steed,  and  sat  himself  down  by  the  water  in  a  mclanciioly  pos- 
ture. It  was  Sacripant,  king  of  Circassia,  one  of  her  lovers, 
wretched  at  the  thought  of  having  missed  her  in  the  camp  of 
King  Charles.  Angelica  loved  Sacripant  no  more  than  the  rest ; 
but,  considering  him  a  man  of  great  conscientiousness,  she  thought 
he  would  make  her  a  good  protector  while  on  her  journey  home. 
She  therefore  suddenly  appeared  before  him  out  of  the  bower, 
like  a  goddess  of  the  woods,  or  Venus  herself,  and  claimed  his 
protection. 

Never  did  a  mother  bathe  the  eyes  of  her  son  with  tears 
of  such  exquisite  joy,  when  he  came  home  after  news  of  his 
death  in  battle,  as  the  Saracen  king  beheld  this  sudden  appari- 
tion with  its  divine  face  and  beautiful  manners.*  He  could  not 
help  clasping  her  in  his  arms  ;  and  very  different  intentions  were 
coming  into  his  head  than  those  for  which  she  had  given  him 
credit,  when  the  noise  of  a  second  warrior  thundering  through 
the  woods  made  him  remount  his  horse  and  prepare  for  an  en- 
counter. The  stranger  speedily  made  his  appearance,  a  person- 
age of  a  gallant  and  fiery  bearing,  clad  in  a  surcoat  white  as 
snow,  with  a  white  streamer  for  a  crest.  He  seemed  more  bent 
on  havinjj  the  wav  cleared  before  him  than  anxious  about  the 
manner  of  it ;  so  couching  his  lance  as  he  came,  while  Sacri- 
pant did  the  like  with  his,  he  dashed  upon  the  Circassian  with 
such  violence  as  to  cast  him  on  the  ground  \  and  though  his  own 
horse  slipped  at  the  same  time,  he  had  it  up   again  in  an  instant 

Dentro  letto  vi  fan  tener'  erbette, 

Ch'  invitano  a  posar  chi  s'  appresenta. 
La  bella  donna  in  mezo  a  quel  si  mette  ; 

Ivi  si  scorca,  et  ivi  s'  addormenta."  St.  37. 

An  exquisite  picture ! 
♦  And  how  lovely  is  this  ! 

"  E  fuor  di  quel  cespuglio  oscuro  e  cieco 
Fa  di  se  bella  et  improvvisa  mostra, 
Come  di  selva  o  fuor  d'  ombroso  speco 

Diana  in  scena,  o  Citerea  si  mostra,"  &c.  St.  52. 


342  THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 

with  his  spurs ;  and  so,  continuing  his  way,  was  a  mile  off  be- 
fore the  Saracen  recovered  from  his  astonishment. 

As  the  stunned  and  stupid  ploughman,  who  has  been  stretched 
by  a  thunderbolt  beside  his  slain  oxen,  raises  himself  from  the 
ground  after  the  lofty  crash,  and  looks  with  astonishment  at  the 
old  pine-tree  near  him  which  has  been  stripped  from  head  to  foot, 
with  just  such  amazement  the  Circassian  got  up  from  his  down- 
fall, and  stood  in  the  presence  of  Angelica,  who  had  witnessed  it. 
Never  in  his  life  had  he  blushed  so  red  as  at  that  moment. 

Angelica  comforted  him  in  sorry  fashion,  attributing  the  dis- 
aster to  his  tired  and  ill-fed  horse,  and  observing  that  his  enemy 
had  chosen  to  risk  no  second  encounter ;  but,  while  she  was  talk- 
ing, a  messenger,  with  an  appearance  of  great  fatigue  and  anx- 
iety, came  riding  up,  who  asked  Sacripant  if  he  had  seen  a 
knight  in  a  white  surcoat  and  crest. 

"  He  has  this  instant,''  answered  the  king,  "  overthrown  me, 
and  galloped  away.     Who  is  he  ?" 

"  It  is  no  Ae,"  replied  the  messenger.  '■  The  rider  who  has 
overthrown  you,  and  thus  taken  possession  of  whatever  glory  you 
may  have  acquired,  is  a  damsel ;  and  she  is  still  more  beautiful 
than  brave.     Bradamante  is  her  illustrious  name." 

And  Vv^ith  these  words  the  horseman  set  spurs  to  his  horse,  and 
left  the  Saracen  more  miserable  than  before.  He  mounted  An- 
gelica's horse  without  a  word,  his  own  having  been  disabled ;  and 
so,  taking  her  up  behind  him,  proceeded  on  the  road  in  continued 
silence.* 

They  had  just  gone  a  couple  of  miles,  when  they  again  heard 
a  noise,  as  of  some  powerful  body  in  haste  ;  and  in  a  little  while, 
a  horse  without  a  rider  came  rushing  towards  them,  in  golden 
trappings.     It  was  Rinaldo's  horse,  Bayardo.f     The  Circassian, 

*  How  admirable  is  the  suddenness,  brevity,  and  force  of  this  scene !  And  it 
is  as  artful  and  dramatic  as  off-hand ;  for  this  Amazon,  Bradamante,  is  the  fu- 
ture heroine  of  the  warlike  part  of  the  poem,  and  the  beauty  from  whose  mar- 
riage with  Ruggiero  is  to  spring  the  house  of  Este.  Nor  Avithout  her  appear- 
ance at  this  moment,  as  Panizzi  has  shewn  (vol.  i.  p.  cvi.),  could  a  variety  of 
subsequent  events  have  taken  place  necessary  to  the  greatest  interests  of  the 
story.  All  the  previous  passages  in  romance  about  Amazons  are  nothing  com- 
pared wdth  this  flash  of  a  thunderbolt. 

t  From  bayard,  old  French ;  bay-colour. 


THE   ADVExNTLRES   OF   ANGELICA.  1^3 


dismounting,  thougiit  to  seize  it,  but  was  welcomed  with  a  curvet, 
which  made  him  beware  how  he  hazarded  somethinir  worse.  The 
horse  then  went  straight  to  Angelica  in  a  way  as  caressing  as  a 
dog  ;  for  he  remembered  how  she  fed  him  in  Albracca  at  the 
time  when  she  was  in  love  with  his  ungracious  master :  and  the 
beauty  recollected  Bayardo  with  equal  pleasure,  for  she  had  need 
of  him.  Sacripant,  however,  watched  his  opportunity,  and 
mounted  the  horse ;  so  that  now  the  two  companions  had  each  a 
separate  steed.  They  were  about  to  proceed  more  at  their  ease, 
when  again  a  great  noise  was  heard,  and  Rinaldo  himself  was 
seen  coming  after  them  on  foot,  threatening  the  Saracen  with 
furious  gestures,  for  he  saw  that  he  had  got  his  horse ;  and  he 
recognised,  above  all,  in  a  rage  of  jealousy,  the  lovely  face  beside 
him.  Angelica  in  vain  implored  the  Circassian  to  fly  with  her. 
He  asked  if  she  had  forgotten  the  wars  of  Albracca,  and  all 
which  he  had  done  to  serve  her,  that  thus  she  supposed  him  afraid 
of  another  battle. 

Sacripant  endeavoured  to  push  Bayardo  against  Rinaldo  ;  but 
the  horse  refusing  to  fight  his  master,  he  dismounted,  and  the  two 
rivals  encountered  each  other  with  their  swords.  At  first  they 
went  through  the  whole  sword-exercise  to  no  effect ;  but  Rinaldo, 
tired  of  the  delay,  raised  the  terrible  Fusberta,*  and  at  one  blow 
cut  through  the  other's  twofold  buckler  of  bone  and  steel,  and 
benumbed  his  arm.  Angelica  turned  as  pale  as  a  criminal  going 
to  execution ;  and,  without  farther  waiting,  galloped  off  through 
the  forest,  looking  round  every  instant  to  see  if  Rinaldo  was  upon 
her. 

She  had  not  gone  far  when  she  met  an  old  man  who  seemed  to 
be  a  hermit,  but  was  in  reality  a  magician,  coming  along  upon 
an  ass.  He  was  of  venerable  aspect,  and  seemed  worn  out  with 
age  and  mortifications  ;  yet,  when  he  beheld  the  exquisite  face 
before  him,  and  heard  the  lady  explain  how  it  was  she  needed  his 
assistance,  even  he,  old  as  he  really  was,  began  to  fancy  himself 
a  lover,  and  determined  to  use  his  art  for  the  purpose  of  keeping 
his  two  rivals  at  a  distance.  Taking  out  a  book,  and  reading  a 
little  in  it,  there  issued  from  the  air  a  spirit  in  likeness  of  a  ser- 

*  His  famous  sword,  vide  p.  27. 


344  THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 

vant,  whom  he  sent  to  the  two  combatants  with  directions  to  give 
them  a  false  account  of  Orlando's  having  gone  otF  to  France 
with  Angelica.  The  spirit  disappeared  ;  and  the  magician  jour- 
neying with  his  companion  to  the  sea-coast,  raised  another,  who 
entered  Angelica's  horse,  and  carried  her,  to  her  astonishment 
and  terror,  out  to  sea,  and  so  round  to  some  lonely  rocks.  There, 
to  her  great  comfort  at  first,  the  old  man  rejoined  her ;  but  his 
proceedings  becoming  very  mysterious,  and  exciting  her  indigna- 
tion, he  cast  her  into  a  deep  sleep. 

It  happened,  at  this  moment,  that  a  ship  was  passing  by  the 
rocks,  bound  upon  a  tragical  commission  from  the  island  of 
Ebuda.  It  was  the  custom  of  that  place  to  consign  a  female 
daily  to  the  jaws  of  a  sea-monster,  for  the  purpose  of  averting  the 
wrath  of  one  of  their  gods  ;  and  as  it  was  thought  that  the  god 
would  be  appeased  if  they  brought  him  one  of  singular  beauty, 
the  mariners  of  the  ship  seized  with  avidity  on  the  sleeping  An- 
gelica, and  carried  her  off,  together  with  the  old  man.  The 
people  of  Ebuda,  out  of  love  and  pity,  kept  her,  unexposed  to  the 
sea-monster,  for  some  days ;  but  at  length  she  was  bound  to  the 
rock  where  it  was  accustomed  to  seek  its  food ;  and  thus,  in  tears 
and  horror,  with  not  a  friend  to  look  to,  the  delight  of  the  world 
expected  her  fate.  East  and  west  she  looked  in  vain ;  to  the 
heavens  she  looked  in  vain ;  every  where  she  looked  in  vain. 
That  beauty  which  had  made  King  Agrican  come  from  the  Cas- 
pian gates,  with  half  Scythia,  to  find  his  death  from  the  hands  of 
Orlando ;  that  beauty  which  had  made  King  Sacripant  foi-get  both 
his  country  and  his  honour ;  that  beauty  which  had  tarnished  the 
renown  and  the  wisdom  of  the  great  Orlando  himself,  and  turned 
the  whole  East  upside  down,  and  laid  it  at  the  feet  of  loveliness, 
has  now  not  a  soul  near  it  to  give  it  the  comfort  of  a  word. 

Leaving  our  heroine  a  while  in  this  condition,  I  must  now  tell 
you  that  Ruggiero,  the  greatest  of  all  the  infidel  warriors,  had 
been  presented  by  his  guardian,  the  magician  Atlantes,  with  two 
wonderful  gifts  ;  the  one  a  shield  of  dazzling  metal,  which  blinded 
and  overthrew  every  one  that  looked  at  it ;  and  the  other  an  ani- 
mal which  combined  the  bird  with  the  quadruped,  and  was  called 
the  Hippogriff,  or  grifiin-horse.  It  had  the  plumage,  the  wings, 
head,  beak,  and  front-legs  of  a  griffin,  and  the  rest  like  a  horse. 


THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  'Mb 


It  was  not  made  by  enchantment,  but  was  a  creature  of  a  natural 
kind  found  but  very  rarely  in  the  Ripha?an  mountains,  far  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Frozen  Sea.* 

With  these  gifts,  liigh  mounted  in  the  air,  the  you  no-  ward  of 
Atlantes  was  now  making  the  grandest  of  grand  tours.  He  had 
for  some  time  been  confined  by  the  magician  in  a  castle,  in  order 
to  save  him  from  the  dangers  threatened  in  his  horoscope.  From 
this  he  had  been  set  free  by  the  lady  with  whom  he  was  destined 
to  fall  in  love  ;  he  had  then  been  inveigled  by  a  wicked  fairy  into 
her  tower,  and  set  free  by  a  good  one  ;  and  now  he  was  on  his 
travels  through  the  world,  to  seek  his  mistress  and  pursue  knight- 
ly adventures. 

Casting  his  eyes  on  the  coast  of  Ebuda,  the  rider  of  the  hippo- 
griff  beheld  the  amazing  spectacle  of  the  lady  tied  to  the  rock  ; 
and  struck  with  a  beautv  whicii  reminded  him  of  her  whom  he 
loved,  he  resolved  to  deliver  her  from  a  peril  which  soon  became 
too  manifest. 

A  noise  was  heard  in  the  sea  ;  and  the  huge  monster,  the  Ore, 
appeared  half  in  the  water,  and  half  out  of  it,  like  a  ship  which 
drags  its  way  into  port  aftef  a  long  and  tempestuous  voyage. f  It 
seemed  a  huge   mass  without  form  except   the   head,  which   had 

*  To  richness  and  rarity,  how  much  is  added  by  remoteness !     It  adds  distance 
to  the  other  difficulties  of  procuring  it. 

t  "  Ecco  apparir  lo  smisurato  mostro 
Mezo  ascoso  ne  1'  onda,  e  mezo  sorto. 
Come  sospinto  suol  da  Borea  o  d'  Ostro 
Venir  lungo  navilio  a  pigliar  porto." 

Canto  X.  St.  100. 

Improved  from  Ovid,  Metamorph.  Hb.  iv.  706 : 

X  "  Ecce  velut  navis  prsefixo  concita  rostro 

Sulcat  aquas,  juvenuni  sudantibus  acta  lacertis ; 
Sic  fera,"  &c. 

As  when  a  galley  with  sharji  beak  comes  fierce, 
Ploughing  the  waves  with  many  a  sweating  oar. 

Ovid  is  brisker  and  more  obviously  to  the  purpose ;  but  Ariosto  gives  the  pon- 
derousness  and  dreary  triumph  of  the  monster.  The  comparison  of  the  fly  and 
the  mastiff  is  in  the  same  higher  and  more  epic  taste.  The  classical  reader  need 
not  be  told  that  the  whole  ensuing  passage,  as  far  as  the  combat  is  concerned,  is 
imitated  from  Ovid's  story  of  Perseus  and  Andromeda. 


346  THE   ADVENTURES   OP   ANGELICA. 


eyes  sticking  out,  and  bristles  like  a  boar.  Ruggiero,  who  had 
dashed  down  to  the  side  of  Angelica,  and  attempted  to  encourage 
her  in  vain,  noAV  rose  in  the  air  ;  and  the  monster,  whose  atten- 
tion was  diverted  by  a  shadow  on  the  water  of  a  couple  of  great 
wings  dashing  round  and  above  him,  presently  felt  a  spear  on  his 
neck  ;  but  only  to  irritate  him,  for  it  could  not  pierce  the  skin. 
In  vain  Ruggiero  tried  to  do  so  a  hundred  times.  The  combat 
was  of  no  more  effect  than  that  of  the  fly  with  the  mastiff,  when 
it  dashes  against  his  eyes  and  mouth,  and  at  last  comes  once  too 
often  within  the  gape  of  his  snapping  teeth.  The  ore  raised  such 
a  foam  and  tempest  in  the  waters  with  the  flapping  of  his  tail, 
that  the  knight  of  the  hippogriff  hardly  knew  whether  he  was  in 
air  or  sea.  He  beijan  to  fear  that  the  monster  would  disable  the 
creature's  wings  ;  and  where  would  its  rider  be  then  ?  He  there- 
fore had  recourse  to  a  weapon  which  he  never  used  but  at  the  last 
moment,  when  skill  and  courage  became  of  no  service  :  he  un- 
veiled the  magic  shield.  But  first  he  flew  to  Angelica,  and  put 
on  her  finger  the  ring;  which  neutralized  its  elTect.  The  shield 
blazed  on  the  water  like  another  sun.  The  ore,  beholding  it,  felt 
it  smite  its  eyes  like  lightning ;  and  rolling  over  its  unwieldy 
body  in  the  foam  which  it  had  raised,  lay  turned  up,  like  a  dead 
fish,  insensible.  But  it  was  not  dead  ;  and  Ruggiero  was  so  long 
in  making  ineffectual  efforts  to  pierce  it,  that  Angelica  cried  out 
to  him  for  God's  sake  to  lelease  her  while  he  had  the  opportunity, 
lest  the  monster  should  revive.  "  Take  me  v/ith  you,"  she  said  ; 
"drown  me  ;  any  thing,  rather  than  let  me  be  food  for  this  horror." 

The  knight  released  her  instantly.  He  set  her  behind  him  on 
the  winged  horse,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  in  the  air,  transport- 
ed with  having  deprived  the  brute  of  his  delicate  supper.  Then, 
turning  as  he  went,  he  imprinted  on  her  a  thousand  kisses.  He 
had  intended  to  make  a  tour  of  Spain,  which  was  not  far  off;  but 
he  now  altered  his  mind,  and  descended  with  his  prize  into  a  love- 
ly spot  on  the  coast  of  Brittany,  encircled  with  oaks  full  of  night- 
ingales, with  here  and  there  a  solitary  mountain. 

It  was  a  little  green  meadow  with  a  brook.*  Ruggiero  look- 
ed  about  him  with  transport,  and  was  preparing  to  disencumbei 

*  "  Sul  lito  un  bosco  era  di  querce  ombrose, 
Dove  ogn'  or  par  che  Filomena  piagna ; 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  347 


himself  of  his  hot  armour,  when  tlie  blushing  beauty,  casting  her 
eyes  downwards,  belield  on  lier  fmwr  the  identical  lUiKnc  r'mcr 
wliicli  her  futlier  had  given  her  wlicn  she  first  entered  Christen- 
dom, and  which  had  delivered  her  out  of  so  many  dangers.  If 
put  on  the  finger  only,  it  neutralized  all  enchantment ;  but  put 
into  the  mouth,  it  rendered  the  wearer  invisible.  It  had  been 
stolen  from  her,  and  came  into  the  hands  of  a  good  fairy,  wlio 
gave  it  to  Ruggiero,  in  order  to  deliver  him  from  the  wiles  of  a 
bad  one.  Falsehood  to  the  good  fairy's  friend,  his  own  mistress 
Bradamante,  now  rendered  him  unworthy  of  its  possession  ;  and 
at  the  moment  when  he  thought  Angelica  his  own  beyond  re- 
demption, she  vanished  out  of  his  sight.  In  vain  he  knew  the 
secret  of  the  ring,  and  the  possibility  of  her  being  still  present — 
the  certainty,  at  all  events,  of  her  not  being  very  far  off.  He  ran 
hither  and  thither  like  a  madman,  hoping  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms, 
and  embracinfT  nothinsr  but  the  air.  In  a  little  while  she  was  dis- 
tant  far  enough  ;  and  Ruggiero,  stamping  about  to  no  purpose  in 
a  rage  of  disappointment,  and  at  length  resolving  to  take  horse, 
perceived  he  had  been  deprived,  in  the  mean  time,  of  his  hippogriff. 
It  had  loosened  itself  from  the  tree  to  which  he  had  tied  it,  and 
taken  its  own  course  over  the  mountains.  Thus  he  had  lost  horse, 
ring,  and  lady,  all  at  once.* 

Pursuing  his  way,  with  contending  emotions,  through  a  valley 
between  lofty  woods,  he  heard  a  great  noise  in  the  thick  of  them. 
He  rushed  to  see  what  it  was  ;  and  found  a  giant  combating  with 

Ch'  in  mezo  avea  un  pratel  con  una  fonte, 
E  quinci  e  quLndi  un  solitario  monte. 


Quivi  il  bramoso  cavalier  ritenne 

L'  audace  corso,  e  ncl  pratel  disease." 


St.  113. 


What  a  landscape  !  and  what  a  charni  beyond  painting  he  has  put  into  it  with 
his  nifrhtinfales  !  £ind  then  what  fiomrcs  besides  !  A  knitrht  on  a  winged  steed 
descending  with  a  naked  beauty  into  a  meadow  in  the  thick  of  woods,  with 
"here  and  there  a  soUtary  mountain."  Tlie  mountains  make  no  formal  circle; 
they  keep  their  separate  distances,  with  their  various  intervals  of  hght  and  shade. 
And  what  a  heart  of  solitude  is  given  to  the  meadow  by  the  loneliness  of  these 
its  waiters  aloof! 

*  Nothing  can  be  more  perfectly  wrought  up  than  this  sudden  change  of  cir- 
cumstances . 


348  THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 

a  young  knight.  The  giant  got  the  better  of  the  knight ;  and 
having  cast  him  on  the  ground,  unloosed  his  hehxiet  for  the  pur- 
pose of  slaying  him,  when  Ruggiero,  to  his  horror,  beheld  in  the 
youth's  face  that  of  his  unworthily-treated  mistress  Bradamante. 
He  rushed  to  assault  her  enemy  ;  but  the  giant,  seizing  her  in 
his  arms,  took  to  his  heels  ;  and  the  penitent  lover  followed  him 
with  all  his  might,  but  in  vain.  The  wretch  was  hidden  from 
his  eyes  by  the  trees.  At  length  Ruggiero,  incessantly  pursuing 
him,  issued  forth  into  a  great  meadow,  containing  a  noble  man- 
sion ;  and  here  he  beheld  the  giant  in  the  act  of  dashing  through 
the  gate  of  it  with  his  prize. 

The  mansion  was  an  enchanted  one,  raised  by  the  anxious  old 
guardian  of  Ruggiero  for  the  purpose  of  enticing  into  it  both  the 
youth  himself,  and  all  from  whom  he  could  experience  danger  in 
the  course  of  his  adventures.  Orlando  had  just  been  brought 
there  by  a  similar  device,  that  of  the  apparition  of  a  knight  car- 
rying off  Angelica ;  for  the  supposed  Bradamante  was  equally  a 
deception,  and  the  giant  no  other  than  the  magician  himself. 
There  also  were  the  knights  Ferragus,  and  Brandimart,  and 
Grandonio,  and  King  Sacripant,  all  searching  for  something  they 
had  missed.  They  wandered  about  the  house  to  no  purpose  ; 
and  sometimes  Rugijiero  heard  Bradamante  callingr  him  ;  and 
sometimes  Orlando  beheld  Angelica's  face  at  a  window.* 

At  length  the  beauty  arrived  in  her  own  veritable  person.  She 
was  again  on  horseback,  and  once  more  on  the  look-out  for  a 
knight  who  should  conduct  her  safely  home — whether  Orlando  or 
Sacripant  she  had  not  determined.  The  same  road  which  had 
brought  Ruggiero  to  the  enchanted  house  having  done  as  much 
for  her,  she  now  entered  it  invisibly  by  means  of  the  ring. 

Finding  both  the  knights  in  the  place,  and  feeling  under  the 
necessity  of  coming  to  a  determination  respecting  one  or  the  other, 

*  To  feel  the  complete  force  of  this  picture,  a  reader  should  have  been  in  the 
South,  and  beheld  the  like  sudden  apparitions,  at  open  windows,  of  ladies  looking 
forth  in  dresses  of  beautiful  colours,  and  with  faces  the  most  interestincr.  I  re- 
member  a  vision  of  this  sort  at  Carrara,  on  a  bright  but  not  too  hot  day  (I  fancied 
that  the  marble  mountains  there  cooled  it).  It  resembled  one  of  Titian's  wo- 
men, with  its  broad  shoulders,  and  boddice  and  sleeves  differently  coloured 
from  the  petticoat ;  and  seemed  literally  framed  in  the  unsashed  window.  But 
I  am  digressing. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ANGELICA.  :U9 

Angelica  made  up  her  mind  in  favour  of  King  Sacripant,  whom 
she  reckoned  to  be  more  at  her  disposal.  Contriving  therefore  to 
meet  him  bv  himself,  she  took  the  rini^  out  of  her  mouth,  and 
suddenly  appeared  before  him.  He  had  hardly  recovered  from 
his  amazement,  when  Ferragus  and  Orlando  himself  came  up  ; 
and  as  Angelica  now  was  visible  to  all,  she  took  occasion  to  de- 
liver them  from  the  enchanted  house  by  hastening  before  them 
into  a  wood.  They  all  followed  of  course,  in  a  frenzy  of  anx- 
iety and  delight ;  but  the  lady  being  perplexed  with  the  presence 
of  the  whole  three,  and  recollecting  that  she  had  again  obtained 
possession  of  her  ring,  resolved  to  trust  her  safe  conduct  to  invis- 
ibility alone  ;  so,  in  the  old  fashion,  she  left  them  to  new  quarrels 
by  suddenly  vanishing  from  their  eyes.  She  stopped,  neverthe- 
less, a  while  to  laugh  at  them,  as  they  all  turned  their  stupified 
faces  hither  and  thither  ;  then  suffered  them  to  pass  her  in  a 
blind  thunder  of  pursuit  ;  and  so,  gently  following  at  her  leisure 
on  the  same  road,  took  her  way  towards  the  East. 

It  was  a  long  journey,  and  she  saw  many  places  and  people, 
and  was  now  hidden  and  now  seen,  like  the  moon,  till  she  came 
one  day  into  a  forest  near  the  walls  of  Paris,  where  she  beheld  a 
youth  lying  wounded  on  the  grass,  between  two  companions  that 
were  dead. 


PART  n. 


8 


350  THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 


ANGELICA  AND  MEDORO. 

Now,  in  order  to  understand  who  the  youth  was  that  Angelica 
found  lying  on  the  grass  between  the  two  dead  companions,  and 
how  he  came  to  be  so  lying,  you  must  know  that  a  great  battle 
had  been  fought  there  between  Charlemagne  and  the  Saracens,  in 
which  the  latter  were  defeated,  and  that  these  three  people  be- 
longed to  the  Saracens.  The  two  that  were  slain  were  Dardinel, 
king  of  Zumara,  and  Cloridan,  one  of  his  followers  ;  and  the 
wounded  survivor  was  another,  whose  name  was  Medoro.  Clo- 
ridan and  Medoro  had  been  loving  and  grateful  servants  of  Dar- 
dinel, and  very  fast  friends  of  one  another ;  such  friends,  indeed, 
that  on  their  own  account,  as  well  as  in  honour  of  what  they 
did  for  their  master,  their  history  deserves  a  particular  mention. 

They  were  of  a  lowly  stock  on  the  coast  of  Syria,  and  in  all 
the  various  fortunes  of  their  lord  had  shewn  him  a  special  at- 
tachment. Cloridan  had  been  bred  a  huntsman,  and  was  the 
robuster  person  of  the  two.  Medoro  was  in  the  first  bloom  of 
youth,  with  a  complexion  rosy  and  fair,  and  a  most  pleasant  as 
well  as  beautiful  countenance.  He  had  black  eyes,  and  hair 
that  ran  into  curls  of  gold  ;  in  short,  looked  like  a  very  angel 
from  heaven. 

These  two  were  keeping  anxious  watch  upon  the  trenches  of 
the  defeated  army,  when  Medoro,  unable  to  cease  thinking  of  the 
master  who  had  been  left  dead  on  the  field,  told  his  friend  that  he 
could  no  longer  delay  to  go  and  look  for  his  dead  body,  and  bury 
it.  "  You,"  said  he,  "  will  remain,  and  so  be  able  to  do  justice 
to  my  memory,  in  case  I  fail." 

Cloridan,  though  he  delighted  in  this  proof  of  his  triend's 
noble-heartedness,  did  all  he  could  to  dissuade  him  from  so  peril- 


THE   ADVENTURES   OK   ANGELICA.  351 


ous  an  enterprise  ;  but  Medoro,  in  the  fervour  of  his  gratitude  for 
benefits  conferred  on  him  by  liis  lord,  was  immovable  in  his  deter- 
mination to  die  or  to  succeed  ;  and  Cloridan,  seeing  tiiis,  deter- 
mined to  go  with  him. 

They  took  their  way  accordingly  out  of  the  Saracen  camp, 
and  in  a  short  time  found  themselves  in  that  of  the  enemv.  The 
Christians  had  been  drinking  over-night  for  joy  at  their  victory, 
and  were  buried  in  wine  and  sleep.  Cloridan  halted  a  moment, 
and  said  in  a  whisper  to  his  friend,  "  Do  you  see  this  ?  Ought  1 
to  lose  such  an  opportunity  of  revenging  our  beloved  master  ? 
Keep  watch,  and  I  will  do  it.  Look  about  you,  and  listen  on 
every  side,  while  I  make  a  passage  for  us  among  these  sleepers 
with  my  sword." 

Without  waiting  an  answer,  the  vigorous  huntsman  pushed 
into  the  first  tent  before  him.  It  contained,  among  other  occu- 
pants, a  certain  Alpheus,  a  physician  and  caster  of  nativities, 
who  had  prophesied  to  himself  a  long  life,  and  a  death  in  the 
bosom  of  his  family.  Cloridan  cautiously  put  the  sword's  point 
in  his  throat,  and  there  was  an  end  of  his  dreams.  Four  other 
sleepers  were  despatched  in  like  manner,  without  time  given 
them  to  utter  a  syllable.  After  them  went  another,  who  had  en- 
trenched himself  between  two  horses  ;  then  the  luckless  Grill, 
who  had  made  himself  a  pillow  of  a  barrel  which  he  had  emp- 
tied. He  was  dreaming  of  opening  a  second  barrel,  but,  alas, 
was  tapped  himself.  A  Greek  and  a  German  followed,  who  had 
been  playing  late  at  dice  ;  fortunate,  if  they  had  continued  to  do 
so  a  little  longer ;  but  they  never  counted  a  throw  like  this 
among  their  chances. 

By  this  time  the  Saracen  had  grown  ferocious  with  his  bloody 
work,  and  went  slaughtering  along  like  a  wild  beast  among  sheep. 
Nor  could  Medoro  keep  his  own  sword  unemployed  ;  but  he  dis- 
dained to  strike  indiscriminately — he  was  choice  in  his  victims. 
Among  these  was  a  certain  Duke  La  Brett,  who  had  his  lady  fast 
asleep  in  his  arms.  Shall  I  pity  them  ?  That  will  I  not.  Sweet 
was  their  fated  hour,  most  happy  their  departure  ;  for,  embraced 
as  the  sword  found  them,  even  so,  I  believe,  it  dismissed  them  into 
the  other  world,  loving  and  enfolded. 

Two  brothers  were  slain  next,  sons  of  the  Count  of  Flanders, 


352  THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 

and  newly-made  valorous  knights.  Charlemagne  had  seen  them 
turn  red  with  slaughter  in  the  field,  and  had  augmented  their 
coat  of  arms  with  his  lilies,  and  promised  them  lands  beside  in 
Friesland.  And  he  would  have  bestowed  the  lands,  only  Medoro 
forbade  it. 

The  friends  now  discovered  that  they  had  approached  the 
quarter  in  which  the  Paladins  kept  guard  about  their  sovereign. 
They  were  afraid,  therefore,  to  continue  the  slaughter  any  fur- 
ther ;  so  they  put  up  their  swords,  and  picked  their  way  cau- 
tiously through  the  rest  of  the  camp  into  the  field  where  the  battle 
had  taken  place.  There  they  experienced  so  much  difficulty  in 
the  search  for  their  master's  body,  in  consequence  of  the  horrible 
mixture  of  the  corpses,  that  they  might  have  searched  till  the 
perilous  return  of  daylight,  had  not  the  moon,  at  the  close  of  a 
prayer  of  Medoro's,  sent  forth  its  beams  right  on  the  spot  where 
the  king  was  lying.  Medoro  knew  him  by  his  cognizance,  argent 
and  gules.  The  poor  youth  burst  into  tears  at  the  sight,  weeping 
plentifully  as  he  approached  him,  only  he  was  obliged  to  let  his 
tears  flow  without  noise.  Not  that  he  cared  for  death — at  that 
moment  he  would  gladly  have  embraced  it,  so  deep  was  his  af- 
fection for  his  lord  ;  but  he  was  anxious  not  to  be  hindered  in  his 
pious  office  of  consigning  him  to  the  earth. 

The  two  friends  took  up  the  dead  king  on  their  shoulders,  and 
were  hasting  away  with  the  beloved  burthen,  when  the  white- 
ness of  dawn  began  to  appear,  and  with  it,  unfortunately,  a  troop 
of  horsemen  in  the  distance,  right  in  their  path. 

It  was  Zerbino,  prince  of  Scotland,  with  a  party  of  horse.  He 
was  a  warrior  of  extreme  vigilance  and  activity,  and  was  return- 
ing to  the  camp  after  having  been  occupied  all  night  in  pursuing 
such  of  the  enemy  as  had  not  succeeded  in  getting  into  their  en- 
trenchments.* 

*  Ariosto  elsewhere  represents  him  as  the  handsomest  man  in  the  world ;  say- 
ing of  him,  in  a  line  that  has  become  famous, 

"Natura  il  fece,  e  poi  roppe  la  stampa." 

Canto  X.  St.  84. 

— Nature  made  him,  and  then  broke  the  mould. 
(The  word  is  generally  printed  ruppe;  but  I  use  the  primitive  text  of  Mr.  Pan- 


THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  353 


(( 


My  friend,"  exclaimed  the  huntsman,  "  we  must  e'en  take  to 
our  heels.  Two  living  people  must  not  be  sacrificed  to  one  who 
is  dead." 

With  these  words  he  let  go  his  share  of  the  burden,  taking  for 
granted  that  the  friend,  whose  life  as  well  as  his  own  he  was 
thinking  to  secure,  would  do  as  he  himself  did.  But  attached  as 
Cloridan  had  been  to  his  master,  Medoro  was  far  more  so.  He 
accordingly  received  the  whole  burden  on  his  shoulders.  Clori- 
dan meantime  scoured  away,  as  fast  as  feet  could  carry  him, 
thinking  his  companion  was  at  his  side  :  otherwise  he  would  soon- 
er have  died  a  hundred  times  over  than  have  left  him. 

In  the  interim,  the  party  of  the  Scottish  prince  had  dispersed 
themselves  about  the  plain,  for  the  purpose  of  intercepting  the  two 
fugitives,  whichever  way  they  went ;  for  they  saw  plainly  they 
were  enemies,  by  the  alarm  they  shewed. 

There  was  an  old  forest  at  hand  in  those  days,  which,  besides 
being  thick  and  dark,  was  full  of  the  most  intricate  cross-paths, 
and  inhabited  only  by  game.  Into  this  Cloridan  had  plunged. 
Medoro,  as  well  as  he  could,  hastened  after  him  ;  but  hampered 
as  he  was  with  his  burden,  the  more  he  sought  the  darkest  and 
most  intricate  paths,  the  less  advanced  he  found  himself,  especial- 
ly as  he  had  no  acquaintance  with  the  place. 

On  a  sudden,  Cloridan  having  arrived  at  a  spot  so  quiet  that  he 
became  aware  of  the  silence,  missed  his  beloved  friend.  "  Great 
God  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  have  I  done  ?  Left  him  I  know  not 
where,  or  how  !"  The  swift  runner  instantly  turned  about,  and, 
retracing  his  steps,  came  voluntarily  back  on  the  road  to  his  own 
death.  As  he  approached  the  scene  where  it  was  to  take  place, 
he  began  to  hear  the  noise  of  men  and  horses  ;  then  he  discern- 
ed voices  threatening ;  then  the  voice  of  his  unhappy  friend  ; 
and  at  length  he  saw  him,  still  bearing  his  load,  in  the  midst  of 
the  whole  troop  of  horsemen.  The  prince  was  commanding  them 
to  seize  him.  The  poor  youth,  however,  burdened  as  he  was, 
rendered  it  no  such  easy  matter  ;  for  he  turned  himself  about  like 
a  wheel,  and  entrenched  himself,  now  behind  this  tree,  and  now 

nizzi's  edition.)  Boiardo's  handsomest  man,  Astolfo,  was  an  Englishman;  Ari- 
osto's  is  a  Scotciiman.  See,  in  the  present  volume,  the  note  on  the  character 
of  Astolfo,  p.  23. 


354  THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 

behind  that.  Finding  this  would  not  do,  he  laid  his  beloved  bur- 
den on  the  ground,  and  then  strode  hither  and  thither,  over  and 
round  about  it,  parrying  the  horsemen's  endeavours  to  take  him 
prisoner.  Never  did  poor  hunted  bear  feel  more  conflicting  emo- 
tions, when,  surprised  in  her  den,  she  stands  over  her  offspring 
with  uncertain  heart,  groaning  with  a  mingled  sound  of  tenderness 
and  rage.  Wrath  bids  her  rush  forward,  and  bury  her  nails  in 
the  flesh  of  their  enemy  ;  love  melts  her,  and  holds  her  back  in 
the  middle  of  her  fury,  to  look  upon  those  whom  she  bore.* 

Cloridan  was  in  an  agony  of  perplexity  what  to  do.  He  longed 
to  rnsh  forth  and  die  with  his  friend  ;  he  longed  also  still  to  do 
what  he  could,  and  not  to  let  him  die  unavenged.  He  therefore 
halted  a  while  before  he  issued  from  the  trees,  and,  putting  an 
arrov/  to  his  bow,  sent  it  well-aimed  among  the  horsemen.  A 
Scotsman  fell  dead  from  his  saddle.     The  troop  all  turned  to  see 

*  "  Come  orsa,  che  1'  alpestre  cacciatore 

Ne  la  pietrosa  tana  assalita  abbia, 
Sta  sopra  i  figli  con  incerto  core, 

E  freme  in  suono  di  piet&,  e  di  rabbia : 
Ira  la  'nvita  e  natural  furore 

A  spiegar  1'  ugne,  e  a  insanguinar  le  labbia ; 
Amor  la  'ntenerisce,  e  la  ritira 
A  riguardare  a  i  figli  in  mezo  1'  ira." 

Like  as  a  bear,  whom  men  in  mountains  start 
In  her  old  stony  den,  and  dare,  and  goad, 

Stands  o'er  her  children  with  uncertain  heart, 
And  roars  for  rage  and  sorrow  in  one  mood  : 

Anger  impels  her,  and  her  natural  part, 
To  use  her  nails,  and  bathe  her  lips  in  blood  ; 

Love  melts  her,  and,  for  all  her  angry  roar. 

Holds  back  her  eyes  to  look  on  those  she  bore. 

This  stanza  in  Ariosto  has  become  famous  as  a  beautifiil  transcript  of  a  beautiful 
passage  in  Statius,  which,  indeed,  it  surpasses  in  style,  but  not  in  feeling,  es- 
pecially when  we  consider  with  whom  the  comparison  originates : 

"  Ut  lea,  quam  saevo  foetam  pressere  cubili 
Venantes  Numidae,  natos  erecta  superstat 
Mente  sub  incerta,  torvum  ac  miserabile  frendens : 
Ilia  quidem  turbare  globos,  et  frangere  morsu 
Tela  queat ;  sed  prolis  amor  crudelia  vincit 
Pectora,  et  in  media  catulos  circumspicit  ira." 

Thebais,  x.  414. 


THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  355 


whence  the  arrow  came  ;  and  as  they  were  raging  and  crying 
out,  a  second  stuck  in  the  throat  of  tlie  loudest. 

"  This  is  not  to  be  borne,"  cried  the  prince,  pushing  his  horse 
towards  Medoro  ;  "  you  shall  sutler  for  this."  And  so  speaking, 
he  thrust  his  hand  into  the  golden  locks  of  the  youth,  and  dragged 
him  violently  backwards,  intending  to  kill  him  ;  but  when  he 
looked  on  his  beautiful  face,  he  couldn't  do  it. 

Tiie  youth  betook  himself  to  entreaty.  "  For  God's  sake,  sir 
knight !"  cried  he,  "  be  not  so  cruel  as  to  deny  me  leave  to  bury 
my  lord  and  master.  He  was  a  king.  I  ask  nothing  for  myself 
— not  even  my  life.  I  do  not  care  for  my  life.  I  care  for  noth- 
ing but  to  bury  my  lord  and  master." 

These  words  were  spoken  in  a  manner  so  earnest,  that  the 
good  prince  could  feel  nothing  but  pity  ;  but  a  ruffian  among  the 
troop,  losing  sight  even  of  respect  for  his  lord,  thrust  his  lance 
into  the  poor  youth's  bosom  right  over  the  prince's  hand.  Zer- 
bino  turned  with  indignation  to  smite  him,  but  the  villain,  seeing 
what  was  coming,  galloped  off;  and  meanwhile  Cloridan,  think- 
ing that  his  friend  was  slain,  came  leaping  full  of  rage  out  of  the 
wood,  and  laid  about  him  with  his  sword  in  mortal  desperation. 
Twenty  swords  were  upon  him  in  a  moment ;  and  perceiving 
life  flowing  out  of  him,  he  let  himself  fall  down  by  the  side  of 
his  friend.*         .__— — 

*  This  adventure  of  Cloridan  and  Medoro  is  imitated  from  the  Nisus  and 
Eurvalus  of  Virgil,  An  Italian  critic,  quoted  by  Panizzi,  says,  that  the  way 
in  wliich  Cloridan  exposes  himself  to  the  enemy  is  inferior  to  the  Latiji  poet's 
famoxxs 

"  Me,  me  (adsum  qui  feci),  in  me  convertite  ferrum." 

Me,  me  ('tis  I  who  did  the  deed),  slay  me. 

And  the  reader  will  agree  with  Panizzi,  that  he  is  right.  The  circumstance, 
also,  of  Eurjalus's  bequeathing  his  aged  mother  to  the  care  of  his  prince,  in 
case  he  fliils  in  his  enterprise,  is  very  touching ;  and  the  main  honour,  both  of 
the  invention  of  the  whole  episode  and  its  particulars,  remains  with  Virgil. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  enterprise  of  the  friends  in  the  Italian  poet,  which  is 
that  of  burying  their  dead  master,  and  not  merely  of  communicating  with  an 
absent  general,  is  more  atTecting,  though  it  may  be  less  patriotic ;  the  inability 
of  Zerbino  to  kill  him,  when  he  looked  on  his  face,  is  extremely  so ;  and,  as 
Panizzi  has  shewn,  the  adventure  is  made  of  importance  to  the  whole  story  of 
the  poem,  and  is  not  simply  an  episode,  like  that  in  the  iEneid.  It  serves,  too, 
in  a  very  particular  manner  to  introduce  INIedoro  worthily  to  the  aflection  of 


356  THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 


The  Scotsmen,  supposing  both  the  friends  to  be  dead,  now  took 
their  departure  ;  and  Medoro  indeed  would  have  been  dead  before 
long,  he  bled  so  profusely.  But  assistance  of  a  very  unusual 
sort  was  at  hand. 

A  lady  on  a  palfrey  happened  to  be  coming  by,  who 'observed 
signs  of  life  in  him,  and  was  struck  with  his  youth  and  beauty. 
She  was  attired  with  great  simplicity,  but  her  air  was  that  of  a 
person  of  high  rank,  and  her  beauty  inexpressible.  In  short,  it 
was  the  proud  daughter  of  the  lorjj  of  Cathay,  Angelica  herself. 
Finding  that  she  could  travel  in  safety  and  independence  by 
means  of  the  magic  ring,  her  self-estimation  had  risen  to  such  a 
height,  that  she  disdained  to  stoop  to  the  companionship  of  the 
greatest  man  living.  She  could  not  even  call  to  mind  that  such 
lovers  as  the  County  Orlando  or  King  Sacripant  existed :  and  it 
mortified  her  beyond  measure  to  think  of  the  affection  she  had 
entertained  for  Rinaldo. 

"  Such  arrogance,"  thought  Love,  "  is  not  to  be  endured." 
The  little  archer  with  the  wings  put  an  arrow  to  his  bow,  and 
stood  waiting  for  her  by  the  spot  where  Medoro  lay. 

Now,  when  the  beauty  beheld  the  youth  lying  half  dead  with 
his  wounds,  and  yet,  on  accosting  him,  found  that  he  lamented 
less  for  himself  than  for  the  unburied  body  of  the  king  his  mas- 
ter, she  felt  a  tenderness  unknown  before  creep  into  every  par- 
ticle of  her  being  ;  and  as  the  greatest  ladies  of  India  were  ac- 
customed to  dress  the  wounds  of  their  knights,  she  bethought  her 
of  a  balsam  whicli  she  had  observed  in  coming  along;  and  so, 
looking  about  for  it,  brought  it  back  with  her  to  the  spot,  together 
with  a  herdsman  whom  she  had  met  on  horseback  in  search  of 
one  of  his  stray  cattle.  The  blood  was  ebbing  so  fast,  that  the 
poor  youth  was  on  the  point  of  expiring  ;  but  Angelica  bruised 
the  plant  between  stones,  and  g^athered  the  juice  into  her  delicate 
hands,  and  restored  his  strength  with  infusing  it  into  the  wounds  ; 
so  that,  in  a  little  while,  he  was  able  to  get  on  the  horse  belong- 
ing to  the  herdsman,  and  be  carried  away  to  the  man's  cottage. 
He  would  not  quit  his   lord's  body,   however,   nor  that  of   his 

Angelica ;  for,  mere  female  though  she  be,  we  should  hardly  have  gone  along 
with  her  passion  as  we  do,  in  a  poem  of  any  seriousness,  had  it  been  founded 
merely  on  his  beauty. 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  357 

friend,  till  he  had  seen  them  laid  in  the  ground.  He  then  went 
with  the  lady,  and  she  took  up  her  abode  with  him  in  the  cottage, 
and  attended  him  till  he  recovered,  loving  him  more  and  more 
day  by  day  ;  so  that  at  length  she  fairly  told  him  as  much,  and 
he  loved  her  in  turn ;  and  the  king's  daughter  married  the  lowly- 
born  soldier. 

O  County  Orlando  !  O  King  Sacripant !  That  renowned  val- 
our of  yours,  say,  what  has  it  availed  you  ?  That  lofty  honour, 
tell  us,  at  what  price  is  it  rated  ?  What  is  the  reward  ye  have 
obtained  for  all  your  services  ?  Shew  us  a  single  courtesy  which 
the  lady  ever  vouchsafed,  late  or  early,  for  all  that  you  ever  suf- 
fered in  her  behalf. 

O  King  Agrican  !  if  you  could  return  to  life,  how  hard  would 
you  think  it  to  call  to  mind  all  the  repulses  she  gave  you — all  the  * 
pride  and  aversion  and  contempt  with  which  she  received  your 
advances ! 

O  Ferragus  !  O  thousands  of  others  too  numerous  to  speak  of, 
who  performed  thousands  of  exploits  for  this  ungrateful  one, 
what  would  you  all  think  at  beholding  her  in  the  arms  of  the 
courted  boy ! 

Yes,  Medoro  had  the  first  gathering  of  the  kiss  off  the  lips  of 
Angelica — those  lips  never  touched  before — that  garden  of  roses 
on  the  threshold  of  which  nobody  ever  yet  dared  to  venture. 
The  love  was  headlong  and  irresistible  ;  but  the  priest  was  called 
in  to  sanctify  it ;  and  the  brideswoman  of  the  daughter  of  Cathay 
was  the  wife  of  the  cottager. 

■ '  The  lovers  remained  upwards  of  a  month  in  the  cottage.  An- 
gelica could  not  bear  her  young  husband  out  of  her  sight.  She 
was  for  ever  gazing  on  him,  and  hanging  on  his  neck.  In-doors 
and  out-of-doors,  day  as  well  as  night,  she  had  him  at  her  side. 
In  the  morning  or  evening  they  wandered  forth  along  the  banks 
of  some  stream,  or  by  the  hedge- rows  of  some  verdant  meadow. 
In  the  middle  of  the  day  they  took  refuge  from  the  heat  in  a 
grotto  that  seemed  made  for  lovers ;  and  wherever,  in  their  wan- 
derings, they  found  a  tree  fit  to  carve  and  write  on,  by  the  side 
of  fount  or  river,  or  even  a  slab  of  rock  soft  enough  for  the  pur. 
pose,  there  they  were  sure  to  leave  their  names  on  the  bark  or 
marble ;  so  that,  what  with  the   inscriptions  in-doors   and  out-of- 

8* 


358  THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 

doors  (for  the  walls  of  the  cottage  displayed  them  also),  a  visitor 
of  the  place  could  not  have  turned  his  eye  in  any  direction  with- 
out seeing  the  words 


>) 


"  ANGELICA  AND  MEDORO 

written  in  as  many  different  ways  as  true-lovers'   knots  could 
run.* 

Having  thus  awhile  enjoyed  themselves  in  the  rustic  solitude, 
the  Queen  of  Cathay  (for  in  the  course  of  her  adventures  in 
Christendom  she  had  succeeded  to  her  father's  crown)  thought  it 
time  to  return  to  her  beautiful  empire,  and  complete  the  triumph 
of  love  by  crowning  Medoro  king  of  it. 
^  She  took  leave  of  the  cottagers  with  a  princely  gift.  The 
islanders  of  Ebuda  had  deprived  her  of  every  thing  valuable 
but  a  rich  bracelet,  which,  for  some  strange,  perhaps  supersti- 
tious, reason,  they  left  on  her  arm.  This  she  took  off,  and  made 
a  present  of  it  to  the  good  couple  for  their  hospitality  ;  and  so 
bade  them  farewell. 

The  bracelet  was  of  inimitable  workmanship,  adorned  with 
gems,  and  had  been  given  by  the  enchantress  Morgana  to  a 
favourite  youth,  who  was  xescued  from  her  wiles  by  Orlando. 
The  .youth,  in  gratitude,  bestowed  it  on  his  preserver  ;  and  the 
hero  had  humbly  presented  it  to  Angelica,  who  vouchsafed  to 
accept  it,  not  because  of  the  giver,  but  for  the  rarity  of  the  gift. 

The  happy  bride  and  bridegroom,  bidding  farewell  to  France, 
proceeded  by  easy  journeys,  and  crossed  the  mountains  into 
Spain,  where  it  was  their  intention  to  take  ship  for  the  Levant. 
Descending  the  Pyrenees,  they  discerned  the  ocean  in  the  dis- 

*  Canto  xix.  st.  34,  &c.  All  the  world  have  felt  this  to  be  a  true  picture  of 
first  love.  The  inscription  may  be  said  to  be  that  of  every  other  pair  of  lovers 
that  ever  existed,  who  knew  how  to  write  their  names. 

How  musical,  too,  are  the  words  "  Angelica  and  Medoro!"  Boiardo  invented 
the  one ;  Ariosto  fotmd  the  match  for  it.  One  has  no  end  to  the  pleasure  of 
repeating  them.  All  hail  to  the  moment  when  I  first  became  aware  of  their 
existence,  more  than  fifty  years  ago,  in  the  house  of  the  gentle  artist  Benjamin 
West !  (Let  the  reader  indulge  me  with  tliis  recollection.)  I  sighed  vidth  plea- 
sure to  look  on  them  at  that  time ;  I  sigh  now,  with  far  more  pleasure  than 
pain,  to  look  back  on  them,  for  they  never  come  across  me  but  with  delight ;  j 
and  poetry  is  a  world  in  which  nothing  beautifbl  ever  thoroughly  forsakes  us,     ' 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  359 


tance,  and  had  now  reached  the  coast,  and  were  proceeding  by  the 
water-side  along  the  higli  road  to  Barcelona,  when  they  beheld  a 
miserable-looking  creature,  a  madman,  all  over  mud  and  dirt, 
lying  naked  in  the  sands.  He  had  buried  himself  half  inside 
them  for  shelter  from  the  sun  ;  but  having  observed  the  lovers  as 
they  came  along,  he  leaped  out  of  his  hole  like  a  dog,  and  came 
raff  in  o;  against  them. 

But,  before  I  proceed  to  relate  who  this  madman  was,  I  must 
return  to  the  cottage  which  the  two  lovers  had  occupied,  and 
recount  what  passed  in  it  during  the  interval  between  their  bid- 
ding it  adieu  and  their  arrival  in  this  place. 


360  THE  ADVENTURES  OF   ANGELICA. 


PART   THE    THIRD. 


THE    JEALOUSY    OF    ORLANDO. 

During  the  course  of  his  search  for  Angelica,  the  County 
Orlando  had  just  restored  two  lovers  to  one  another,  and  was  pur- 
suing a  Pagan  enemy  to  no  purpose  through  a  wild  and  tangled 
wood,  when  he  came  into  a  beautiful  spot  by  a  river's  side,  which 
tempted  him  to  rest  himself  from  the  heat.  It  was  a  small 
meadow,  full  of  daisies  and  butter-cups,  and  surrounded  with 
trees.  There  was  an  air  abroad,  notwithstanding  the  heat,  which 
made  the  shepherds  glad  to  sit  without  their  jerkins,  and  receive 
the  coolness  on  their  naked  bodies  :  even  the  hard-skinned  cattle 
were  glad  of  it ;  and  Orlando,  who  was  armed  cap-a-pie,  was 
delighted  to  take  off  his  helmet,  and  lay  aside  his  buckler,  and 
repose  awhile  in  the  midst  of  a  scene  so  refreshing.  Alas  !  it 
was  the  unhappiest  moment  of  his  life. 

Casting  his  eyes  around  him,  while  about  to  get  off  his  horse, 
he  observed  a  handwriting  on  many  of  the  trees  which  he  thought 
he  knew.  Riding  up  to  the  trees,  and  looking  more  closely,  he 
was  sure  he  knew  it ;  and  in  truth  it  was  no  other  than  that  of 
his  adored  mistress  Angelica,  and  the  inscription  one  of  those 
numerous  inscriptions  of  which  I  have  spoken.  The  spot  was 
one  of  the  haunts  of  the  lovers  while  they  abode  in  the  shep- 
herd's cottage.  Wherever  the  County  turned  his  eyes,  he  be- 
held, tied  together  in  true-lovers'  knots,  nothing  but  the  words 


"  ANGELICA   AND   MEDORO. 


?5 


All  the  trees  had  them — his  eyes  could  see  nothing  else ;  and 
every  letter  was  a  dagger  that  pierced  his  heart. 

The  unhappy  lover  tried  in  vain  to  disbelieve  what  he  saw. 


THE   ADVENTURKS   OF   ANGELICA.  361 


He  endeavoured  to  compel  himself  to  think  that  it  was  some  other 
Angelica  who  iiad  written  the  words  ;  but  he  knew  the  hand- 
writing  too  well.  Too  often  had  he  dwelt  upon  it,  and  made 
himself  familiar  with  every  turn  of  the  letters.  He  then  strove 
to  fancy  that  "  Mcdoro"  was  a  feigned  name,  intended  for  him- 
self; but  he  felt  that  he  was  trying  to  delude  himself,  and  that 
the  more  he  tried,  the  bitterer  was  his  conviction  of  the  truth. 
He  was  like  a  bird  fixing  itself  only  the  more  deeply  in  the  lime 
in  which  it  is  cauirht,  bv  strucrrrlinjr  and  beatino-  its  winiis. 

Orlando  turned  his  horse  away  in  his  anguish,  and  paced  it 
towards  a  grotto  covered  with  vine  and  ivy,  which  he  looked  into. 
The  grotto,  both  outside  and  in,  was  full  of  the  like  inscriptions. 
It  was  the  retreat  the  lovers  were  so  fond  of  at  noon.  Their 
names  were  written  on  all  sides  of  it,  some  in  chalk  and  coal,* 
others  carved  with  a  knife. 

The  wretched  beholder  got  off  his  horse  and  entered  the  grotto. 
The  first  thing  that  met  his  eyes  was  a  larger  inscription  in  the 
Saracen  lover's  own  handwriting  and  tongue — a  language  whicli 
the  slayer  of  the  infidels  was  too  well  acquainted  with.  The 
words  were  in  verse,  and  expressed  the  gratitude  of  the  "  poor 
Medoro,"  the  writer,  for  having  had  in  his  arms,  in  that  grotto, 
the  beautiful  Angelica,  daughter  of  King  Galafron,  whom  so 
many  had  loved  in  vain.  The  writer  invoked  a  blessing  on  every 
part  of  it,  its  shades,  its  waters,  its  flowers,  its  creeping  plants ; 
and  entreated  every  person,  high  and  low,  who  should  chance  to 
visit  it,  particularly  lovers,  that  they  would  bless  the  place  like- 
wise, and  take  care  that  it  was  never  polluted  by  foot  of  herd. 

Thrice,  and  four  times,  did  the  unhappy  Orlando  read  these 
words,  trying  always,  but  in  vain,  to  disbelieve  what  he  saw. 
Every  time  he  read,  they  appeared  plainer  and  plainer ;  and 
every  time  did  a  cold  hand  seem  to  be  wringing  the  heart  in  his 
bosom.  At  length  he  remained  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  stone, 
seeinir  nothing  more,  not  even  the  stone  itself.  He  felt  as  if  his 
wits  were  leaving  him,  so  abandoned  did  he  seem  of  all  comfort. 

♦  "  Scritti,  qual  con  carbonc  e  qual  con  gesso." 

Canto  xxiii.  st.  106. 

Ariosto  did  not  mind  soiling  the  beautiful  fingers  of  Angelica  with  coal  and 
chalk.     He  knew  that  Love  did  not  nund  it. 


362  THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 


Let  those  imagine  what  he  felt  who  have  experienced  the  same 
emotions — who  know,  by  their  own  sufferings,  that  this  is  the 
grief  which  surpasses  all  other  griefs.  His  head  had  fallen  on 
his  bosom  ;  his  look  was  deprived  of  all  confidence  ;  he  could  not 
even  speak  or  shed  a  tear.  His  impetuous  grief  remained  within 
him  by  reason  of  his  impetuosity — like  water  which  attempts  to 
rush  out  of  the  narrow-necked  bottle,  but  which  is  so  compressed 
as  it  comes,  that  it  scarcely  issues  drop  by  drop. 

Again  he  endeavoured  to  disbelieve  his  eyes — to  conclude  that 
somebody  had  wished  to  calumniate  his  mistress,  and  drive  her 
lover  mad,  and  so  had  done  his  best  to  imitate  her  handwriting. 
With  these  sorry  attempts  at  consolation,  he  again  took  horse, 
the  sun  having  now  given  way  to  the  moon,  and  so  rode  a  little 
onward,  till  he  beheld  smoke  rising  out  of  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
and  heard  the  barking  of  dogs  and  the  lowing  of  cattle.  By 
these  signs  he  knew  that  he  was  approaching  a  village.  He  en- 
tered it,  and  going  into  the  first  house  he  came  to,  gave  his  horse 
to  the  care  of  a  youth,  and  was  disarmed,  and  had  his  spurs  of 
gold  taken  off,  and  so  went  into  a  room  that  was  shewn  him  with- 
out demanding  either  meat  or  drink,  so  entirely  was  he  filled 
with  his  sorrow. 

Now  it  happened  that  this  was  the  very  cottage  into  which 
Medoro  had  been  carried  out  of  the  wood  by  the  loving  Angelica. 
There  he  had  been  cured  of  his  wounds — there  he  had  been 
loved  and  made  happy — and  there,  wherever  the  County  Orlando 
turned  his  eyes,  he  beheld  the  detested  writing  on  the  walls,  the 
windows,  the  doors.  He  made  no  inquiries  about  it  of  the  people 
of  the  house  :  he  still  dreaded  to  render  the  certainty  clearer  than 
he  would  fain  suppose  it. 

But  the  cowardice  availed  him  nothing  ;  for  the  host  seeing 
him  unhappy,  and  thinking  to  cheer  him,  came  in  as  he  was  get- 
ting into  bed,  and  opened  on  the  subject  of  his  own  accord.  It 
was  a  story  he  told  to  every  body  who  came,  and  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  have  it  admired  ;  so  with  littl-^^eface  he  related  all  the 
particulars  to  his  new  guest — how  th^^outh  had  been  left  for 
dead  on  the  field,  and  how  the  lady  had  found  him,  and  had  him 
brought  to  the  cottage- — and  how  she  fell  in  love  with4iim  as  he 
grew  well — and  how  she  could  be  content  with  nothing  but  mar- 


THE   ADVENTURES   OP  ANGELICA.  303 

rying  him,  though  she  was  daughter  of  the  greatest  king  of  the 
East,  and  a  queen  herself.  At  tlie  conclusion  of  his  narrative, 
the  good  man  produced  the  bracelet  which  had  been  given  him 
by  Angelica,  as  evidence  of  the  truth  gf  all  that  he  had  been 
savino;. 

This  was  the  final  stroke,  the  last  fatal  blow,  given  to  the  poor 
hopes  of  Orlando  by  the  executioner,  Love.  He  tried  to  conceal 
his  misery,  but  it  was  no  longer  to  be  repressed  ;  so  finding  the 
tears  rush  into  his  eves,  he  desired  to  be  alone.  As  soon  as  the 
man  had  retired,  he  let  them  flow  in  passion  and  agony.  In  vain 
he  attempted  to  rest,  much  less  to  sleep.  Every  part  of  the  bed 
appeared  to  be  made  of  stones  and  thorns. 

At  length  it  occurred  to  him,  that  most  likely  they  had  slept 
in  that  very  bed.  He  rose  instantly,  as  if  he  had  been  lying  on 
a  serpent.  The  bed,  the  house,  the  herdsman,  every  thing  about 
the  place,  gave  him  such  horror  and  detestation,  that,  without 
waiting  for  dawn,  or  the  liglit  of  moon,  he  dressed  himself,  and 
went  forth  and  took  his  horse  from  the  stable,  and  galloped  on- 
wards into  the  middle  of  the  woods.  There,  as  soon  as  he  found 
himself  in  the  solitude,  he  opened  all  the  flood-gates  of  his  grief, 
and  gave  way  to  cries  and  outcries. 

But  he  still  rode  on.  Day  and  night  did  Orlando  ride  on, 
weeping  and  lamenting.  He  avoided  towns  and  cities,  and  made 
his  bed  on  the  hard  earth,  and  wondered  at  himself  that  he  could 
weep  so  long. 

"  These,"  thought  he,  "  are  no  tears  that  are  thus  poured  forth. 
They  are  life  itself,  the  fountains  of  vitality  ;  and  I  am  weeping 
and  dying  both.  These  are  no  sighs  that  I  thus  eternally  exhale. 
Nature  could  not  supply  them.  They  are  Love  himself  storming 
in  my  heart,  and  at  once  consuming  me  and  keeping  me  alive 
"with  his  miraculous  fires.  No  more — no  more  am  I  the  man  I 
seem.  He  that  was  Orlando  is  dead  and  buried.  His  uno;rate- 
ful  mistress  has  slain  him.  I  am  but  the  soul  divided  from  his 
body — doomed  to  wander  j[[^fe  in  this  misery,  an  example  to  those 
that  put  their  trust  in  love." 

For  the  wits  of  the  County  Orlando  were  going  ;  and  he  wan- 
dered all  night  round  and  round  in  the  wood,  till  he  came  back  to 
the  grotto  where  Medoro  had  written  his  triumphant  verses.     Mad- 


364  THE  ADVENTURES  OP  ANGELICA. 

ness  then  indeed  fell  upon  him.  Every  particle  of  his  being 
seemed  torn  up  with  rage  and  fury  ;  and  he  drew  his  mighty 
sword,  and  hewed  the  grotto  and  the  writing,  till  the  words  flew  in 
pieces  to  the  heavens.  Woe  to  every  spot  in  the  place  in  which 
were  written  the  names  of  "  Angelica  and  Medoro."  Woe  to  the 
place  itself:  never  again  did  it  afford  refuge  from  the  heat  of  day 
to  sheep  or  shepherd  ;  for  not  a  particle  of  it  remained  as  it  was. 
With  arm  and  sword  Orlando  defaced  it  all,  the  clear  and  gentle 
fountain  included.  He  hacked  and  hewed  it  inside  aud  out,  and 
cut  down  the  branches  of  the  trees  that  hung  over  it,  and  tore  away 
the  ivy  and  the  vine,  and  rooted  up  great  bits  of  earth  and  stone, 
and  filled  the  sweet  water  with  the  rubbish,  so  that  it  was  never 
clear  and  sweet  again  ;  and  at  the  end  of  his  toil,  not  having  sat- 
isfied or  being  able  to  satisfy  his  soul  with  the  excess  of  his  vio- 
lence, he  cast  himself  on  the  ground  in  rage  and  disdain,  and  lay 
groaning  towards  the  heavens. 

On  the  ground  Orlando  threw  himself,  and  on  the  ground  he 
remained,  his  eyes  fixed  on  heaven,  his  lips  closed  in  dumbness ; 
and  thus  he  continued  for  the  space  of  three  days  and  three 
nights,  till  his  frenzy  had  mounted  to  such  a  pitch,  that  it  turned 
against  himself.  He  then  arose  in  fury,  and  tore  off  mail  and 
breastplate,  and  every  particle  of  clothing  from  his  body,  till  hu- 
manity was  degraded  in  his  heroical  person,  and  he  became  na- 
ked as  the  beasts  of  the  field. 

In  this  condition,  and  his  wits  quite  gone,  sword  was  forgotten 
as  well  as  shield  and  helm  ;  and  he  tore  up  fir-tree  and  ash,  and 
began  running  through  the  woods.  The  shepherds  hearing  the 
cries  of  the  strong  man,  and  the  crashing  of  the  boughs,  came 
hastening  from  all  quarters  to  know  what  it  was  ;  but  when  he 
saw  them  he  gave  them  chase,  and  smote  to  death  those  whom  he 
reached,  till  the  whole  country  v/as  up  in  arms,  though  to  no  pur- 
pose ;  for  they  wei'e  seized  with  such  terror,  that  while  they 
threatened  and  closed  after  him,  they  avoided  him.  He  entered 
cottages,  and  tore  away  the  food  from  the  tables  ;  and  ran  up  the 
craggy  hills  and  down  into  the  valleys  ;  and  chased  beasts  as 
well  as  men,  tearing  the  fawn  and  the  goat  to  pieces,  and  stuffing 
their  flesh  into  his  stomach  with  fierce  will. 

Raging  and  scouring  onwards  in  this  manner,  he  arrived  one 


one 


THE   ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA.  3G5 

day  at  a  bridge  over  a  torrent,  on  which  the  fierce  Rodoinont  had 
fixed  himself  for  tlie  purpose  of  throwing  any  one  that  attempted 
to  pass  it  into  the  water.  It  was  a  very  narrow  bridge,  with 
scarcely  room  for  two  horses.  But  Orlando  took  no  heed  of  its 
narrowness.  He  dashed  right  forwards  against  man  and  steed, 
and  forced  the  champion  to  wrestle  with  him  on  foot ;  and,  wind- 
ing himself  about  him  with  hideous  strength,  he  leaped  backwards 
with  him  into  the  torrent,  where  he  left  him,  and  so  mounted  the 
opposite  bank,  and  again  rushed  over  the  country.  A  more  ter- 
rible bridge  than  this  was  in  his  way — even  a  precipitous  pass  of 
frightful  height  over  a  valley  ;  but  still  he  scoured  onwards, 
throwing  over  it  the  agonised  passengers  that  dared,  in  their  ig- 
norance of  his  strength,  to  oppose  him  ;  and  so  always  rushing 
and  raging,  he  came  down  the  mountains  by  the  sea-side  to  Bar- 
celona, where  he  cast  his  eyes  on  the  sands,  and  thought,  in  his 
idiot  mind,  to  make  himself  a  house  in  them  for  coolness  and  re- 
pose ;  and  so  he  grubbed  up  the  sand,  and  laid  himself  down  in 
it :  and  this  was  the  terrible  madmau  whom  Ansjelica  and  Medo- 
ro  saw  looking  at  them  as  they  were  approaching  the  city. 

Neither  of  them  knew  him,  nor  did  he  know  Angelica  ;  but, 
with  an  idiot  laugh,  he  looked  at  her  beauty,  and  liked  her,  and 
came  horribly  towards  her  to  carry  her  away.  Shrieking,  she 
put  spurs  to  her  horse  and  fled  ;  and  Medoro,  in  a  fury,  came  af- 
ter the  pursuer  and  smote  him,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  great 
madman  turned  round  and  smote  the  other's  horse  to  the  ground, 
and  so  renewed  his  chase  after  Angelica,  who  suddenly  regained 
enough  of  her  wits  to  recollect  the  enchanted  ring.  Instantly  she 
put  it  into  her  lips  and  disappeared  ;  but  in  her  hurry  she  fell 
from  her  palfrey,  and  Orlando  forgot  her  in  the  instant,  and, 
mounting  the  poor  beast,  dashed  off  with  it  over  the  country  till  it 
died  :  and  so  at  last,  after  many  dreadful  adventures  by  flood  and 
field,  he  came  running  into  a  camp  full  of  his  brother  Paladins, 
who  recognised  him  with  tears  ;  and,  all  joining  their  forces,  suc- 
ceeded in  pulling  him  down  and  binding  him,  though  not  without 
many  wounds ;  and  by  the  help  of  these  friends,  and  the  special 
grace  of  the  apostle  St.  John  (as  will  be  told  in  another  place), 
the  wits  of  the  champion  of  the  church  were  restored,  and  he  be- 


366  THE  ADVENTURES   OF   ANGELICA. 

came  ashamed  of  that  passion  for  an  infidel  beauty  which  the 
heavenly  powers  had  thus  resolved  to  punish. 

But  Angelica  and  Medoro  pursued  the  rest  of  their  journey  in 
peace,  and  took  ship  on  the  coast  of  Spain  for  India  ;  and  there 
she  crowned  her  bridegroom  King  of  Cathay. 


The  description  of  Orlando's  jealousy  and  growing  madness  is  reckoned  om 
of  the  finest  things  in  Italian  poetry ;  and  very  fine  it  surely  is — as  strong  as 
the  hero's  strength,  and  sensitive  as  the  heart  of  man.  The  circumstances  art 
heightened,  one  after  the  other,  with  the  utmost  art  as  well  as  nature.  There 
is  a  scriptural  awfulness  in  the  account  of  the  hero's  becoming  naked ;  and  the 
violent  result  is  tremendous.  I  have  not  followed  Orlando  into  his  feats  of 
ultra-supernatural  strength.  The  reader  requires  to  be  prepared  for  them  bj 
the  whole  poem.  Nor  are  they  necessary,  I  think,  to  the  production  of  the  best 
effect ;  perhaps  would  hurt  it  in  an  age  unaccustomed  to  the  old  romances. 


ASTOLFO'S  JOURNEY  TO  THE  MOON, 


The  Paladin  Astolfo  ascends  on  the  hippogriff  to  the  top  of  one  of  the  moun- 
tains at  the  source  of  the  Nile,  called  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  where  he 
discovers  the  Terrestrial  Paradise,  and  is  welcomed  by  St.  John  the  Evangelist. 
The  Evangelist  then  conveys  him  to  the  Moon  itself,  where  he  is  shewn  all  the 
things  that  have  been  lost  on  earth,  among  which  is  the  Reason  of  Orlando, 
who  had  been  deprived  of  it  for  loving  a  Pagan  beauty.  Astolfo  is  favoured 
with  a  singular  discourse  by  the  Apostle,  and  is  then  presented  with  a  vial  con- 
taining the  Reason  of  his  great  brother  Paladin,  which  he  conveys  to  earth. 


ASTOLFO'S  JOURNEY   TO  THE  MOON. 


When  the  hippogrifF  loosened  itself  from  the  tree  to  which 
Ruggiero  had  tied  it  in  the  beautiful  spot  to  which  he  descended 
with  Angelica,*  it  soared  away,  like  the  faithful  creature  it  was, 
to  the  house  of  its  own  master,  Atlantes  the  magician.  But  not 
long  did  it  remain  there — no,  nor  the  house  itself,  nor  the  magi- 
cian ;  for  the  Paladin  Astolfo  came  with  a  mighty  horn  given 
him  by  a  greater  magician,  the  sound  of  which  overthrew  all 
such  abodes,  and  put  to  flight  whoever  heard  it ;  and  so  the 
house  of  Atlantes  vanished,  and  the  enchanter  fled  ;  and  the 
Paladin  took  possession  of  the  griffin-horse,  and  rode  away  with 
it  on  farther  adventures. 

One  of  these  was  the  deliverance  of  Senapus,  king  of  Ethiopia, 
from  the  visitation  of  the  dreadful  harpies  of  old,  who  came  in- 
festing his  table  as  they  did  those  of  ^neas  and  Phineus.  Astol- 
fo drove  them  with  his  horse  towards  the  sources  of  the  river  Nile, 
in  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  and  pursued  them  with  the  hip- 
pogriff  till  they  entered  a  great  cavern,  which,  by  tlie  dreadful 
cries  and  lamentings  that  issued  from  the  depths  within  it,  the 
Paladin  discovered  to  be  the  entrance  from  earth  to  Hell. 

The  daring  Englishman,  whose  curiosity  was  excited,  resolved 
to  penetrate  to  the  regions  of  darkness.  "  What  have  I  to  fear  ?" 
thought  he  ;  "  the  horn  will  assist  me,  i[  I  want  it.  I'll  drive  the 
triple-mouthed  dog  out  of  the  way,  and  put  Pluto  and  Satan  to 
flight."t 

Astolfo  tied  the  hippogriff'  to  a  tree,  and  pushed  forward  in 
spite  of  a  smoke  that  grew  thicker  and  thicker,  offending  liis 
eyes  and  nostrils.     It  became,  however,   so  exceedingly  heavy 

*  See  p.  116. 
t  Ariosto  is  here  imitating  Puici,  and  bearding  Dante.     See  vol.  i.  p.  200. 


370  ASTOLFO'S  JOURNEY  TO  THE  MOON. 

and  noisome,  that  he  found  it  would  be  impossible  to  complete  his 
enterprise.  Still  he  pushed  forward  as  far  as  he  could,  especially 
as  he  began  to  discern  in  the  darkness  something  that  appeared  to 
stir  with  an  involuntary  motion.  It  looked  like  a  dead  body 
which  has  hung  up  many  days  in  the  rain  and  sun,  and  is  waved 
unsteadily  by  the  wind.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  condemned  spirit 
in  this  first  threshold  of  Hell,  sentenced  there,  with  thousands  of 
others,  for  having  been  cruel  and  false  in  love.  Her  name  was 
Lydia,  and  she  had  been  princess  of  the  country  so  called.* 
Anaxarete  was  among  them,  who,  for  her  hard-heartedness,  be- 
came a  stone  ;  and  Daphne,  who  now  discovered  how  she  had 
erred  in  making  Apollo  "run  so  much  ;"  and  multitudes  of  other 
women  ;  but  a  far  greater  number  of  men — men  being  worthier 
of  punishment  in  offences  of  love,  because  women  are  proner  to 
believe.  Theseus  and  Jason  were  among  them  ;  and  Amnon,  the 
abuser  of  Tamar ;  and  he  that  disturbed  the  old  kingdom  of 
Latinus."]" 

Astolfo  would  fain  have  gone  deeper  into  the  jaws  of  Hell,  but 
the  smoke  grew  so  thick  and  palpable,  it  was  impossible  to  move  a 
step  farther.  Turning  about,  therefore,  he  regained  the  entrance  ; 
and  having  refreshed  himself  in  a  fountain  hard  by,  and  re- 
mounted the  hippogriff,  felt  an  inclination  to  ascend  as  high  as  he 
possibly  could  in  the  air.  The  excessive  loftiness  of  the  moun- 
tain above  the  cavern  made  him  think  that  its  top  could  be  at  no 
great  distance  from  the  region  of  the  Moon ;  and  accordingly  he 
pushed  his  horse  upwards,  and  rose  and  rose,  till  at  length  he 

*  I  know  of  no  story  of  a  cruel  Lydia  but  the  poet's  own  mistress  of  that 
jirane,  whom  I  take  to  be  the  lady  here  "shadowed  forth."     See  Life,  p.  114. 

t  The  story  of  Anaxarete  is  in  Ovid,  lib.  xiv.  Every  body  knows  that  of 
Dtiphne,  wlio  made  Apollo,  as  Ariosto  says,  "  run  so  much"  (correr  tanto). 
Theseus  and  Jason  are  in  hell,  as  deserters  of  Ariadne  and  Medea ;  Amnon,  for 
the  atrocity  recorded  in  the  Bible  (2  Samuel,  chap,  xiii.);  and  ^neas  for  inter- 
fering with  Turnus  and  Lavinia,  and  taking  possession  of  places  he  had  no 
right  to.  It  is  delightful  to  see  the  great,  generous  poet  going  upon  grounds 
of  reason  and  justice  in  the  teeth  of  the  trumped-up  rights  of  the  "pious 
iEneas,"  that  shabby  deserter  of  Dido,  and  canting  prototype  of  Augustus. 
He  turns  the  tables,  also,  with  brave  candour,  upon  the  tyrannical  claims  of  the 
titronger  sex  to  privileges  which  they  deny  the  other;  and  says,  that  there  are 
more  faithless  men  in  Hell  than  faithless  women ;  which,  if  personal  infidelity 
sends  people  there,  most  undovibtcdly  is  the  case  beyond  all  comparison. 


ASTOLFO'S   JOURNEY  TO  THR  MOON.  371 

found  liimself  on  its  table-land.  It  exhibited  a  region  of  celestial 
beauty.  The  ilowers  were  like  beds  of  precious  stones  for  col- 
our and  brightness  ;  the  grass,  if  you  could  have  brought  any  to 
earth,  would  have  been  found  to  surpass  emeralds ;  and  the  trees, 
whose  leaves  were  no  less  beautiful,  were  in  fruit  and  flower  at 
once.  Birds  of  as  many  colours  were  singing  in  the  branches  ; 
the  murmuring  rivulets  and  dumb  lakes  were  more  limpid  than 
crystal :  a  sweet  air  was  for  ever  stirring,  which  reduced  tiie 
warmth  to  a  gentle  temperature ;  and  every  breath  of  it  brouglit 
an  odour  from  flowers,  fruit-trees,  and  herbage  all  at  once,  which 
nourished  the  soul  with  sweetness.* 

In  the  middle  of  this  lonely  plain  was  a  palace  radiant  as  fire. 
Astolfo  rode  his  horse  round  about  it,  constantly  admiring  all  he 
saw,  and  fllled  with  increasing  astonishment ;  for  he  found  that 
the  dwelling  was  thirty  miles  in  circuit,  and  composed  of  one 
entire  carbuncle,  lucid  and  vermilion.  What  became  of  the 
boasted  wonders  of  the  world  before  this  ?  The  world  itself,  in 
the  comparison,  appeared  but  a  lump  of  brute  and  fetid  matter. j- 

As  the  Paladin  approached  the  vestibule,  he  was  met  by  a 
venerable  old  man,  clad  in  a  white  gown  and  red  mantle,  whose 
beard  descended  on  his  bosom,  and  whose  aspect  announced  him 
as  one  of  the  elect  of  Paradise.  It  was  St.  John  the  Evangelist, 
who  lived  in  that  mansion  with  Enoch  and  Elijah,  the  only  three 
mortals  who  never  tasted  death  ;  for  the  place,  as  the  saint  in- 
formed him,  was  the  Terrestrial  Paradise  ;  and  the  inhabitants 
were  to  live  there  till  the  angelical  trumpet  announced  the  com- 
ine  of  Christ  "  on  the  white  cloud."     The  Paladin,  he  said,  had 

o 

♦  "  Che  di  soiiviti  1'  alma  notriva"  is  beautiful ;  but  the  passage,  as  a  whole, 
is  not  well  iimtated  from  the  Terrestrial  Paradise  of  Dante.  It  is  not  bad  in 
itself,  but  it  is  very  inferior  to  the  one  that  suggested  it.  See  vol.  i.  p.  122,  &c. 
Ariosto's  Terrestrial  Paradise  was  at  home,  among  the  friends  who  loved  him, 
and  whom  he  made  happy. 

t  This  is  better;  and  the  house  made  of  one  jewel  thirty  miles  in  circuit  is  an 
extravagance  that  becomes  reasonable  on  reflection,  aflbrding  a  just  idea  of 
what  might  be  looked  for  among  the  endless  planetary  wonders  of  Nature, 
which  confound  all  our  relative  ideas  of  size  and  splendour.  The  "lucid  ver- 
miUon"  of  a  structure  so  enonnous,  and  under  a  sun  so  pure,  presents  a  gor- 
geous spectacle  to  the  imagination.  Dante  himself,  if  he  could  have  forgiven 
the  poet  his  animal  spirits  and  views  of  the  Moon  so  different  from  his  own, 
might  have  stood  in  admiration  before  an  abode  at  once  so  luscious  and  so  vast. 


372  ASTOLFO'S  JOURNEY  TO  THE  MOON. 

been  allowed  to  visit  it,  by  the  favour  of  God,  for  the  purpose  of 
fetching  away  to  earth  the  lost  wits  of  Orlando,  which  the  cham- 
pion of  the  Church  had  been  deprived  of  for  loving  a  Pagan,  and 
which  had  been  attracted  out  of  his  brains  to  the  neighbouring 
sphere,  the  Moon. 

Accordingly,  after  the  new  friends  had  spent  two  days  in  dis- 
course, and  meals  had  been  served  up,  consisting  of  fruit  so 
exquisite  that  the  Paladin  could  not  help  thinking  our  first  parents 
had  some  excuse  for  eating  it,*  the  Evangelist,  when  the  Moon 
arose,  took  him  into  the  car  which  had  borne  Elijah  to  heaven  ; 
and  four  horses,  redder  than  fire,  conveyed  them  to  the  lunar 
world. 

The  mortal  visitant  was  amazed  to  see  in  the  Moon  a  world  re- 
sembling his  own,  full  of  wood  and  water,  and  containing  even 
cities  and  castles,  though  of  a  different  sort  from  ours.  It  was 
strange  to  find  a  sphere  so  large  which  had  seemed  so  petty  afar 
off;  and  no  less  strange  was  it  to  look  down  on  the  world  he  had 
left,  and  be  compelled  to  knit  his  brows  and  look  sharply  before 
he  could  well  discern  it,  for  it  happened  at  the  time  to  want 

light.t 

But  his  guide  did  not  leave  him  much  time  to  look  about  him. 
He  conducted  him  with  due  speed  into  a  valley  that  contained,  in 
one  miraculous  collection,  whatsoever  had  been  lost  or  wasted  on 
earth.  I  do  not  speak  only  (says  the  poet)  of  riches  and  domin- 
ions, and  such  like  gratuities  of  Fortune,  but  of  things  also 
which  Fortune  can  neither  grant  nor  resume.  Much  fame  is 
there  which  Time  has  withdrawn — infinite  prayers  and  vows 
which  are  made  to  God  Almighty  by  us  poor  sinners.     There  lie 

*  "  De'  frutti  a  lui  del  Paradise  diero, 

Di  tal  sapor,  ch'  a  suo  giudizio,  sanza 
Scusa  non  sono  i  due  primi  parenti, 
Se  pur  quel  fur  si  poco  ubbidienti." 

Canto  ixxiv.  st.  60. 

t  Modern  astronomers  differ  very  much  both  with  Dante's  and  Ariosto's 
Moon;  nor  do  the  "argent  fields"  of  Milton  appear  better  placed  in  our  mys- 
terious sateUite,  with  its  no-atmosphere  and  no-water,  and  its  tremendous  preci- 
pices. It  is  to  be  hoped  (and  believed)  that  knowledge  will  be  best  for  us 
all  in  the  endj  for  it  is  not  always  so  by  the  way.  It  displaces  beautiful  igno- 
rances. 


ASTOLFO'S   JOURNEY   TO  THE  MOON.  M'A 

the  tears  and  tlie  sighs  of  lovers,  the  hours  lost  in  pastimes,  the 
leisures  of  the  dull,  and  the  intentions  of  the  lazy.  As  to  desires, 
they  are  so  numerous  that  they  shadow  the  whole  place.  Astolfo 
went  round  among  the  dillerent  licaps,  asking  wliat  they  were. 
His  eyes  were  first  struck  with  a  huge  one  of  bladders  which 
seemed  to  contain  mighty  sounds  and  the  voices  of  multi- 
tudes. These  he  found  were  the  Assyrian  and  Persian  monarch- 
ies,  together  with  tliose  of  Greece  and  Lydia.*  One  heap  was 
nothing  but  hooks  of  silver  and  gold,  which  were  the  presents,  it 
seoms,  made  to  patrons  and  great  men  in  hopes  of  a  return. 
Another  consisted  of  snares  in  the  shape  of  garlands,  the  manu- 
facture of  parasites.  Others  were  verses  in  praise  of  great  lords, 
all  made  of  crickets  which  had  burst  themselves  with  sinfrinc. 
Chains  of  gold  he  saw  there,  which  were  pretended  and  unhappy 
love-matches  ;  and  eagles'  claws,  which  were  deputed  authorities  ; 
and  pairs  of  bellows,  which  were  princes'  favours  ;  and  over- 
turned cities  and  treasuries,  being  treasons  and  conspiracies  ;  and 
serpents  with  female  faces,  that  were  coiners  and  thieves  ;  and  all 
sorts  of  broken  bottles,  which  were  services  rendered  in  misera- 
ble courts.  A  great  heap  of  overturned  soupf  he  found  to  be 
alms  to  the  poor,  which  had  been  delayed  till  the  giver's  death. 
He  then  came  to  a  great  mount  of  flowers,  which  once  had  a 
sweet  smell,  but  now  a  most  rank  one.  This  (with  submission) 
was  the  present  which  the  Emperor  Constantine  made  to  good 
Pope  Sylvester.:]:     Heaps  of  twigs  he  saw  next,  set  with  bird- 

*  Very  fine  and  scornful,  I  think,  this.  Mighty  monarchies  reduced  to 
actual  bladders,  which,  little  too  as  they  were,  contamed  big  sounds. 

t  Such,  I  suppose,  as  was  given  at  convent-gates. 

t  The  pretended  gift  of  the  palace  of  St.  John  Lateran,  the  foundation  of 
the  pope's  temporal  sovereignty.  This  famous  passage  was  quoted  and  trans- 
lated by  Milton. 

"  Di  varii  liori  ad  un  gran  monte  passa 
Ch'  ebbe  gii  buon  odore,  or  putia  forte. 
Questo  era  il  dono  (se  per6  dir  lece) 
Che  Constantino  al  buon  Silvestro  fece." 

Canto  xxxiv.  st.  80. 

The  lines  were  not  so  bold  in  the  first  edition.     They  stood  thus : 

"  Ad  un  monte  di  rose  e  gigli  passa, 
Ch'  ebbe  gii  buon  odore,  or  putia  forte, 
PART  II.  y 


374  ASTOLFO'S   JOURNEY   TO  THE  MOON. 

lime,  which,  dear  ladies,  are  your  charms.  In  short  there  was 
no  end  to  what  he  saw.  Thousands  and  thousands  would  not 
complete  the  list.  Every  thing  was  there  which  was  to  be  met 
with  on  earth,  except  folly  in  the  raw  material,  for  that  is  never 
exported.* 

There  he  beheld  some  of  his  own  lost  time  and  deeds  ;  and  yet, 
if  nobody  had  been  with  him  to  make  him  aware  of  them,  never 
would  he  have  recognised  them  as  his."j" 

They  then  arrived  at  something,  which  none  of  us  ever  prayed 
God  to  bestow,  for  we  fancy  we  possess  it  in  superabundance  ;  yet 
here  it  was  in  greater  quantities  than  any  thing  else  in  the  place 
— I  mean,  sense.  It  was  a  subtle  fluid,  apt  to  evaporate  if  not 
kept  closely  ;  and  here  accordingly  it  was  kept  in  vials  of  greater 
or  less  size.  The  greatest  of  them  all  was  inscribed  with  the  fol- 
lowing words  :  "  The  sense  of  Orlando."  Others,  in  like  manner, 
exhibited  the  names  of  the  proper  possessors ;  and  among  them 
the  frank-hearted  Paladin  beheld  the  greater  portion  of  his  own. 
But  what  more  astonished  him,  was  to  see  multitudes  of  the  vials 


Ch'  era  corrotto  ;  e  da  Giovanni  intese, 

Che  fu  un  gran  don  ch'  un  gran  signor  mal  spese." 

"He  came  to  a  mount  of  lilies  and  roses,  that  once  had  a  sweet  smell,  but  now 
stank  with  corruption ;  and  he  understood  fronl  John  that  it  was  a  great  gift 
which  a  great  lord  ill  expended."  . 

The  change  of  these  lines  to  the  stronger  ones  in  the  third  edition,  as  they 
now  stand,  served  to  occasion  a  charge  against  Ariosto  of  having  got  his  privi- 
lege of  publication  from  the  court  of  Rome  for  passages  which  never  existed, 
and  which  he  afterwards  basely  introduced ;  but,  as  Panizzi  observes,  the  third 
edition  had  a  privilege  also;  so  that  the  papacy  put  its  hand,  as  it  were,  to 
these  very  lines.  This  is  remarkable ;  and  doubtless  it  would  not  have  oc- 
curred in  some  other  ages.  The  Spanish  Inquisition,  for  instance,  erased  it, 
though  the  holy  brotherhood  found  no  fault  with  the  story  of  Giocondo. 

*  "  Sol  la  pazzia  non  v'  6,  poca  ne  assai ; 
Che  sta  quh  giu,  nb  se  ne  parte  mai." 

St.  78. 

t  Part  of  this  very  striking  passage  is  well  translated  by  Harrington : 

"  He  saw  some  of  his  own  lost  time  and  deeds, 
And  yet  he  knew  them  not  to  be  his  own." 

I  have  heard  these  Unes  more  than  once  repeated  with  touching  eaarnestness  by 
Charles  Lamb. 


ASTOLFO'S  JOURNEY  TO  THE   MOON.  375 

almost  full  to  the  stopper,  which  bore  the  names  of  men  whom  he 
had  supposed  to  enjoy  their  senses  in  perfection.  Some  had  lost 
them  for  love,  others  for  glory,  others  for  riches,  others  for  hopes 
from  great  men,  others  for  stupid  conjurers,  for  jewels,  for  paint- 
ings, for  all  sorts  of  whims.  There  was  a  heap  belonging  to 
sophists  and  astrologers,  and  a  still  greater  to  poets.* 

Astolfo,  with  leave  of  the  "  writer  of  the  dark  Apocalypse," 
took  possession  of  his  own.  He  had  but  to  uncork  it,  and  set  it 
under  his  nose,  and  the  wit  shot  up  to  its  place  at  once.  Turpin 
acknowledges  that  the  Paladin,  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  led  the 
life  of  a  sage  man,  till,  unfortunately,  a  mistake  which  he  made 
lost  him  his  brains  a  second  time.f 

The  Evangelist  now  presented  him  with  the  vial  containing  the 
wits  of  Orlando,  and  the  travellers  quitted  the  vale  of  Lost  Trea- 
sure. Before  they  returned  to  earth,  however,  the  good  saint 
shewed  his  guest  other  curiosities,  and  favoured  him  with  many  a 
sage  remark,  particularly  on  the  subject  of  poets,  and  the  neglect 
of  them  by  courts.  He  shewed  him  how  foolish  it  was  in  princes 
and  other  great  men  not  to  make  friends  of  those  who  can  immor- 
talise them ;  and  observed,  with  singular  indulgence,  that  crimes 
themselves  might  be  no  hindrance  to  a  good  name  with  posterity, 
if  the  poet  were  but  feed  well  enough  for  spices  to  embalm  the 
criminal.     He  instanced  the  cases  of  Homer  and  Virgil. 

*'  You  are  not  to  take  for  granted,"  said  he,  "  that  ^Eneas  was 
so  pious  as  fame  reports  him,  or  Achilles  and  Hector  so  brave. 
Thousands  and  thousands  of  warriors  have  excelled  them  ;  but 
their  descendants  bestowed  fine  houses  and  estates  on  great  wri- 
ters, and  it  is  from  their  honoured  pages  that  all  the  glory  has  pro- 
ceeded. Augustus  was  no  such  religious  or  clement  prince  as  the 
trumpet  of  Virgil  has  proclaimed  him.  It  was  his  good  taste  in 
poetry  that  got  him  pardoned  his  iniquitous  proscription.  Nero 
himself  might  have  fared  as  well  as  Augustus,  had  he  possessed 
as  much  wit.     Heaven  and  earth  might  have  been  his  enemies  to 

*  Readers  need  not  have  the  points  of  tliis  exquisite  satire  pointed  out  to 
them.     In  noticing  it,  I  only  mean  to  enjoy  it  in  their  company — particularly 
the  passage  about  the  men  accounted  wisest,  and  the  emphatic  "  I  mean,  sense" 
(lo  dico,  11  senno). 
t   Admirable  lesson  to  frailty  ! 


376  ASTOLFO'S  JOURNEY  TO  THE  MOON. 

no  purpose,  had  he  known  how  to  keep  friends  with  good  authors. 
Homer  makes  the  Greeks  victorious,  the  Trojans  a  poor  set,  and 
Penelope  undergo  a  thousand  wrongs  rather  than  be  unfaithful  to 
her  husband  ;  and  yet,  if  you  would  have  the  real  truth  of  the 
matter,  the  Greeks  were  beaten,  and  the  Trojans  the  conquerors, 

and  Penelope  was  a .*     See,  on  the  other  hand,  what  infamy 

has  become  the  portion  of  Dido.  She  was  honest  to  her  heart's 
core ;  and  yet,  because  Virgil  was  no  friend  of  hers,  she  is  look- 
ed upon  as  a  baggage. 

"  Be  not  surprised,"  concluded  the  good  saint,  "  if  I  have  ex- 
pressed myself  with  warmth  on  this  subject.  I  love  writers,  and 
look  upon  their  cause  as  my  own,  for  I  was  a  writer  myself  when 
I  lived  among  you  ;  and  I  succeeded  so  well  in  the  vocation,  that 
time  and  death  will  never  prevail  against  me.  Just  therefore  is 
it,  that  I  should  be  thankful  to  my  beloved  Master,  who  procured 
me  so  great  a  lot.  I  grieve  for  writers  who  have  fallen  on  evil 
times — men  that,  with  pale  and  hungry  faces,  find  the  doors  of 
courtesy  closed  against  all  their  hardships.  This  is  the  reason 
there  are  so  few  poets  now,  and  why  nobody  cares  to  study.  Why 
should  he  study  ?  The  very  beasts  abandon  places  where  there 
is  nothing  to  feed  them." 

At  these  words  the  eyes  of  the  blessed  old  man  grew  so  inflam- 
ed with  anger,  that  they  sparkled  like  two  fires.  But  he  presently 
suppressed  what  he  felt ;  and,  turning  with  a  sage  and  gracious 
smile  to  the  Paladin,  prepared  to  accompany  him  back  to  earth 
with  his  wonted  serenity. 

He  accordingly  did  so  in  the  sacred  car :  and  Astolfo,  after  re- 
ceiving his  gentle  benediction,  descended  on  his  hippogriff*  from 
the  mountain,  and,  joining  the  delighted  Paladins  with  the  vial,  his 
wits  were  restored,  as  you  have  heard,  to  the  noble  Orlando. 


The  figure  which  is  here  cut  by  St.  John  gives  this  remarkable  satire  a  most 
remarkable  close.     His  association  of  himself  with  the  fraternity  of  authors  was 

*  I  do  not  feel  warranted  in  injuring  the  strength  of  the  term  here  made  use 
of  by  the  indignant  apostle,  and  yet  am  withheld  from  giving  it  in  all  its  force 
by  the  delicacy,  real  or  false,  of  the  times.  I  must  therefore  leave  it  to  be  sup- 
plied by  the  reader  according  to  the  requirements  of  his  own  feelings. 


ASTOLFO'S   JOURNEY  TO  THE   MOON.  377 

thought  a  Uttle  "  strong"  by  Ariosto's  contemporaries.  Tlie  lesson  read  to  the 
house  of  Este  is  obvious,  and  could  hardly  have  been  j>leasant  to  men  reputed 
to  be  such  "criminals"  themselves.  Nor  can  Ariosto,  in  this  passage,  be  reck- 
oned a  very  flattering  or  conscientious  pleader  for  his  brother-poets.  Resent- 
ment, and  a  good  jest,  seemed  to  have  conspired  to  make  him  forget  what  was 
due  to  himself. 

The  orifrinal  of  St.  John's  remarks  about  Augustus  and  the  ancient  poets 
must  not  be  omitted.  It  is  exquisite  of  its  kind,  both  in  matter  and  style. 
Voltaire  has  quoted  it  somewhere  with  rapture. 

"  Non  fu  si  santo  n6  benigno  Augusto 

Come  la  tuba  di  Virgilio  suona : 
L'  aver  avuto  in  poesia  buon  gusto 

I^a  proscrizioti  iniqua  gli  perdona. 
Nessun  sapna  se  Neron  fosse  ingiusto, 

N6  sua  fama  saria  forse  men  buona, 
Avesse  avuto  e  terra  e  ciel  nimici, 

Se  o"li  scrittor  sapea  tcnersi  amici. 

Omero  Agamennon  vittorioso, 

E  fe'  i  Trojan  parcr  vili  et  inerti; 
E  che  Penelopea  fida  al  suo  sposo 

Da  i  prochi  mille  oltraggi  avea  sofferti : 
E,  se  tu  vuoi  che  '1  ver  non  ti  sia  ascoso, 

Tutta  al  contrario  1'  istoria  converti : 
Che  i  Grcci  rotti,  e  che  Troia  vittrice, 
E  che  Penelopea  fu  meretricc. 

Da  r  altra  parte  odi  che  fama  lascia 

Elissa,  ch'  ebbe  il  cor  tanto  pudico; 
Che  riputata  viene  una  bagascia, 

Solo  perchfe  Maron  non  le  fu  amico." 

Canto  XXXV.  st.  26. 


ARIODANTE    AND    GINEVRA. 


PART  in. 


Argument. 

The  Duke  of  Albany,  pretending  to  be  in  love  with  a  damsel  in  the  service  of 
Ginevra,  Princess  of  Scotland,  but  desiring  to  marry  the  princess  herself,  and 
not  being  able  to  compass  his  design  by  reason  of  her  being  in  love  with  a 
gentleman  from  Italy  named  Ariodante,  persuades  the  damsel,  in  his  revenge, 
to  personate  Ginevra  in  a  balcony  at  night,  and  so  make  her  lover  believe  that 
she  is  false.  Ariodante,  deceived,  disappears  from  court.  News  is  brought  of 
his  death ;  and  his  brother  Lurcanio  publicly  denounces  Ginevra,  who,  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  Scotland,  is  sentenced  to  death  for  her  supposed  lawless 
passion.  Lurcanio  then  challenges  the  unknown  paramour  (for  the  duke's 
face  had  not  been  discerned  in  the  balcony)  ;  and  Ariodante,  who  is  not  dead, 
is  fighting  him  in  disguise,  when  the  Paladin  Rinaldo  comes  up,  discloses  the 
whole  aff&ir,  and  slays  the  deceiver. 


ARIODANTE   AND   GINEYRA.* 


CiLiiiLE^iAGNE  had  suflercd  a  great  defeat  at  Paris,  and  the 
Paladin  Rinaldo  was  sent  across  the  Channel  to  ask  succours  of 
the  King  of  England ;  but  a  tempest  arose  ere  he  could  reach 
the  coast,  and  drove  him  northwards  upon  that  of  Scotland,  where 
he  found  himself  in  the  Caledonian  Forest,  a  place  famous  of  old 
for  kniglitly  adventure.  Many  a  clash  of  arms  had  been  heard 
in  its  shady  recesses — many  great  things  had  been  done  there  by 
knights  from  all  quarters,  particularly  the  Tristans  and  the 
Launcelots,  and  the  Gawains,  and  others  of  the  Round  Table  of 
Kino-  Arthur. 

Rinaldo,  bidding  the  ship  await  him  at  the  town  of  Berwick, 
plunged  into  the  forest  with  no  other  companion  than  his  horse 
Bayardo,  seeking  the  wildest  paths  he  could  fmd,  in  the  hope  of 
some  strange  adventure. f  He  put  up,  for  the  first  day,  at  an 
abbey  which  was  accustomed  to  entertain  the  knights  and  ladies 
that  journeyed  that  way  ;  and  after  availing  himself  of  its  hospi- 
tality, he  inquired  of  the  abbot  and  his  monks  if  they  could  direct 
him  where  to  find  what  he  looked  for.  They  said  that  plenty  of 
adventures  were  to  be  met  with  in  the  forest ;  but  that,  for  the 

*  The  main  point  of  this  story,  the  personation  of  Gincvra  by  one  of  her 
ladies,  has  been  repeated  by  many  writers — among  others  by  Shakspeare,  in 
Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  The  circmnstance  is  said  to  have  actually  occurred 
in  Ferrara,  and  in  Ariosto's  own  time.  Was  Ariosto  himself  a  party  1  "  Ario- 
dante"  almost  includes  his  name ;  and  it  is  certain  that  he  was  once  in  love 
with  a  lady  of  the  name  of  Ginevra. 

t  Rinaldo  is  an  ambassador,  and  one  upon  very  urgent  business;  yet  he 
halts  by  the  way  in  search  of  adventures.  This  has  been  said  to  be  in  the  true 
taste  of  knight-errantry ;  and  in  one  respect  it  is  so.  We  may  imagine,  how- 
ever, that  the  ship  is  wind-bound,  and  that  he  meant  to  return  to  it  on  change 
of  weather.    The  Caledonian  Forest,  it  is  to  be  observed,  is  close  at  hand. 


382  ARIODANTE  AND   GINEVRA. 

most  part,  they  remained  in  as  much  obscurity  as  the  spots  in 
which  they  occurred.  It  would  be  more  becoming  his  valour, 
they  thought,  to  exert  itself  where  it  would  not  be  hidden ;  and 
they  concluded  with  telling  him  of  one  of  the  noblest  chances  for 
renown  that  ever  awaited  a  sword.  The  daughter  of  their  king 
was  in  need  of  a  defender  against  a  certain  baron  of  the  name  of 
Lurcanio,  who  sought  to  deprive  her  both  of  life  and  reputation. 
He  accused  her  of  having  been  found  in  the  arms  of  a  lover  with- 
out the  license  of  the  priest ;  which,  by  the  laws  of  Scotland,  was 
a  crime  only  to  be  expiated  at  the  stake,  unless  a  champion  could 
be  found  to  disprove  the  charge  before  the  end  of  a  month.  Un- 
fortunately the  month  had  nearly  expired,  and  no  champion  yet 
made  his  appearance,  though  the  king  had  promised  his  daughter's 
hand  to  anybody  of  noble  blood  who  should  establish  her  inno- 
cence ;  and  the  saddest  part  of  the  thing  was,  that  she  was  ac- 
counted innocent  by  all  the  world,  and  a  very  pattern  of  modesty. 

While  this  horrible  story  was  being  told  him,  the  Paladin  fell 
into  a  profound  state  of  thought.  After  remaining  silent  for  a  lit- 
tle while,  at  the  close  of  it  he  looked  up,  and  said,  "  A  lady  then, 
it  seems,  is  condemned  to  death  for  having  been  too  kind  to  one 
lover,  while  thousands  of  our  sex  are  playing  the  gallant  with 
whomsoever  they  please,  and  not  only  go  unpunished  for  it,  but 
are  admired  !  Perish  such  infamous  injustice !  The  man  was  a 
madman  who  made  such  a  law,  and  they  are  little  better  who 
maintain  it.     I  hope  in  God  to  be  able  to  shew  them  their  error." 

The  good  monks  agreed,  that  their  ancestors  were  very  un- 
wise to  make  such  a  law,  and  kings  very  wrong  who  could,  but 
would  not,  put  an  end  to  it.  So,  when  the  morning  came,  they 
speeded  their  guest  on  his  noble  purpose  of  fighting  in  the  lady's 
behalf  A  guide  from  the  abbey  took  him  a  short  cut  through 
the  forest  towards  the  place  where  the  matter  was  to  be  decided  ; 
but,  before  they  arrived,  they  heard  cries  of  distress  in  a  dark 
quarter  of  the  forest,  and,  turning  their  horses  thither  to  see  what 
it  was,  they  observed  a  damsel  between  two  vagabonds,  who  were 
standing  over  her  with  drawn  swojds.  The  moment  the  wretches 
saw  the  new  comer,  they  fled ;  and  Rinaldo,  after  re-assuring  the 
damsel,  and  requesting  to  know  what  had  brought  her  to  a  pass 
so  dreadful,  made  his  guide  take  her  up  on  his  horse  behuid  him, 


ARIODANTE   AND   GINEVRA.  38S 


in  order  that  they  might  lose  no  more  time.  The  damsel,  who 
was  very  beautiful,  could  not  speak  at  first,  for  the  horror  of 
what  she  had  expected  to  undergo  ;  but,  on  Rinaldo's  repeating 
his  request,  she  at  length  found  words,  and,  in  a  voice  of  frreat 
humility,  began  to  relate  her  story. 

But  before  she  begins,  the  poet  interferes  with  an  impatient  re- 
mark.— "  Of  all  the  creatures  in  existence,"  cries  he,  "  whether 
they  be  tame  or  wild,  whether  they  are  in  a  state  of  peace  or  of 
war,  man  is  the  only  one  that  lays  violent  hands  on  the  female  of 
his  species.  The  bear  otfers  no  injury  to  his  ;  the  lioness  is  safe 
by  the  side  of  the  lion  ;  the  heifer  has  no  fear  of  the  horns  of 
the  bull.  What  pest  of  abomination,  what  fury  from  hell,  has 
come  to  disturb,  in  this  respect,  the  bosom  of  human  kind  ?  Hus- 
band and  wife  deafen  one  another  with  injurious  speeches,  tear 
one  another's  faces,  bathe  the  genial  bed  with  tears,  nay,  some- 
times with  bloodshed.  In  my  eyes  the  man  who  can  allow  him- 
self to  give  a  blow  to  a  woman,  or  to  hurt  even  a  hair  of  her 
head,  is  a  violater  of  nature,  and  a  rebel  against  God ;  but  to 
poison  her,  to  strangle  her,  to  take  the  soul  out  of  her  body  with 
a  knife, — he  that  can  do  that,  never  will  I  believe  him  to  be  a 
man  at  all,  but  a  fiend  out  of  hell  with  a  man's  face."* 

Such  must  have  been  the  two  villains  who  fled  at  the  sight  of 
Rinaldo,  and  who  had  brought  the  woman  into  this  dark  spot  to 
stifle  her  testimony  for  ever. 

But  to  return  to  what  she  was  going  to  say. — 

"  You  are  to  know,  sir,"  she  began,  "  that  I  have  been  from 
my  childhood  in  the  service  of  the  king's  daughter,  the  princess 
Ginevra.     I  grew  up  with  her  ;  I  was  held   in  lionour,  and  I  led 

*  All  honour  and  glor}^  to  the  manly  and  loving  poet ! 

'■  Lavezzuola,"  says  Panizzi,  "doubts  the  conjugal  concord  of  beasts,  more 
particularly  of  bears.  '  Ho  letto  presso  degno  autore  un  orso  aver  cavato  im 
occhio  ad  un  orsa  con  la  zampa.'  (I  have  read  in  an  author  worthy  of  credit, 
that  a  bear  once  deprived  a  she-bear  of  an  eye  with  a  blow  of  his  paw.)  The 
reader  may  choose  between  Ariosto  and  this  nameless  author,  which  of  them  is 
to  be  believed.  I,  of  course,  am  for  my  poet." — Vol.  i.  p.  84.  I  am  afraid, 
however,  that  Lavezzuola  is  right.  Even  turtle-doves  are  said  not  to  be  always 
the  models  of  tenderness  they  are  supposed  to  be.  Brutes  have  even  devoured 
their  offspring.  The  violence  is  most  probably  owing  (at  least  in  excessive 
cases)  to  some  unnatural  condition  of  circumstances. 


384  ARIODANTE   AND   GINEVRA. 

a  happy  life,  till  it  pleased  the  cruel  passion  of  love  to  envy  me 
my  condition,  and  make  me  think  that  there  was  no  being  on 
earth  to  be  compared  to  the  Duke  of  Albany.  He  pretended  to 
love  me  so  much,  that,  in  return,  I  loved  him  with  all  my  heart. 
Unable,  by  degrees,  to  refuse  him  anything,  I  let  him  into  the 
palace  at  night,  nay,  into  the  room  which  of  all  others  the  prin- 
cess regarded  as  most  exclusively  her  own  ;  for  there  she  kept 
her  jewels,  and  there  she  was  accustomed  to  sleep  during  inclem- 
ent states  of  the  weather.  It  communicated  with  the  other 
sleeping-room  by  a  covered  gallery,  which  looked  out  to  some 
lonely  ruins  ;   and  nobody  ever  passed  that  way,  day  or  night. 

"  Our  intercourse  continued  for  several  months  ;  and,  finding 
that  I  placed  all  my  happiness  in  obliging  him,  he  ventured  to 
disclose  to  me  one  day  a  design  he  had  upon  the  princess's  hand  ; 
nay,  did  not  blush  to  ask  my  assistance  in  furthering  it.  Judge 
how  I  set  his  wishes  above  my  own,  when  I  confess  that  I  under- 
took to  do  so.  It  is  true,  his  rank  was  nearer  to  the  princess's 
than  to  mine  ;  and  he  pretended  that  he  sought  the  alliance  mere- 
ly on  that  account ;  protesting  that  he  should  love  me  more  than 
ever,  and  that  Ginevra  would  be  little  better  than  his  wife  in 
name.  But,  God  knows,  I  did  it  wholly  out  of  the  excess  of  my 
desire  to  please  him. 

"Day  and  night  I  exerted  all  my  endeavours  to  recommend 
him  to  the  princess.  Heaven  is  my  witness  that  I  did  it  in  real 
earnest,  however  wrong  it  was.  But  my  labour  was  to  no  pur- 
pose, for  she  was  in  love  herself.  She  returned  in  all  its  warmth 
the  passion  of  a  most  accomplished  and  valiant  gentleman,  who 
had  come  into  Scotland  with  a  younger  brother  from  Italy,  and 
who  had  made  himself  such  a  favourite  with  every  body,  my 
lover  included,  that  the  king  himself  had  bestowed  on  him  titles 
and  estates,  and  put  him  on  a  footing  with  the  greatest  lords  of 
the  land. 

"  Unfortunately,  the  princess  not  only  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all 
I  said  in  the  duke's  favour,  but  grew  to  dislike  him  in  proportion 
to  my  recommendation ;  so  that,  finding  there  was  no  likelihood 
of  his  success,  his  own  love  was  secretly  turned  into  hate  and 
rage.  He  studied,  little  as  I  dreamt  he  could  be  so  base,  how  he 
could  best  destroy  her  prospect  of  happiness.     He  resorted,  for 


ARIODANTE   AND   GINEVRA.  385 

this  purpose,  to  a  most  crafty  expedient,  which  I,  poor  fool,  took 
for  nothing  but  what  he  feigned  it  to  be.  He  pretended  that  a 
wiiini  had  come  into  his  head  for  seeming  to  prosper  in  his  suit, 
out  of  a  kind  of  revenge  for  his  not  being  able  to  do  so  in  reality  ; 
and,  in  order  to  indulge  this  whim,  he  requested  me  to  dress  my- 
self in  the  identical  clothes  which  the  princess  put  otV  when  she 
went  to  bed  that  night,  and  then  to  appear  in  them  at  my  usual 
post  in  tiie  balcony,  and  so  let  down  the  ladder  as  though  I  were 
her  very  self,  and  receive  him  into  my  arms. 

'•  I  did  all  that  he  desired,  mad  fool  that  I  was ;  and  out  of  the 
part  which  I  played  has  come  all  this  mischief.  I  have  intimated 
to  you  that  the  duke  and  Ariodante  (for  such  was  the  other's 
name)  had  been  good  friends  before  Ginevra  preferred  him  to 
mv  false  lover.  Pretendinfr  therefore  to  be  still  his  friend,  and 
entering  on  the  subject  of  a  passion  which  he  said  he  had  long  en- 
tertained for  her,  he  expressed  his  wonder  at  finding  it  interfered 
with  by  so  noble  a  gentleman,  especially  as  it  was  returned  by 
the  princess  with  a  fervour  of  which  the  other,  if  he  pleased, 
might  have  ocular  testimony. 

"  Greatly  astonished  at  this  news  was  Ariodante.  He  had  re- 
ceived  all  the  proofs  of  his  mistress's  affection  which  it  was  pos- 
sible for  chaste  love  to  bestow,  and  with  the  greatest  scorn  re- 
fused to  believe  it ;  but  as  the  duke,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
could  not  help  the  melancholy  communication,  quietly  persisted 
in  his  story,  the  unhappy  lover  found  himself  compelled,  at  any 
rate,  to  let  him  afford  those  proofs  of  her  infidelity  which  he  as- 
serted to  be  in  his  power.  The  consequence  was,  that  Ariodante 
came  with  his  brother  to  the  ruins  I  spoke  of;  and  there  the  two 
were  posted  on  the  night  when  I  played  my  unhappy  part  in  the 
balcony.  He  brought  Lurcanio  with  him  (that  was  the  brother's 
name),  because  he  suspected  that  the  duke  had  a  design  on  his 
life,  not  conceiving  what  he  alleged  against  Ginevra  to  be  possible. 
Lurcanio,  however,  was  not  in  the  secret  of  his  brother's  engage- 
ment with  the  princess.  It  had  been  disclosed  hitherto  neither 
to  him  nor  to  any  one,  the  lady  not  yet  having  chosen  to  divulge 
it  to  the  king  himself.  Ariodante,  therefore,  requested  his  brother 
to  take  his  station  at  a  little  distance,  out  of  sight  of  the  palace, 


386  ARIODANTE  AND   GINEVRA. 

and  not  to  come  to  him  unless  he  should  call :  '  otherwise,  my 
dear  brother/  concluded  he,  '  stir  not  a  step,  if  you  love  me.' 

"  '  Doubt  me  not,'  said  Lurcanio ;  and,  with  these  words,  the 
latter  entrenched  himself  in  his  post. 

"  Ariodante  now  stood  by  himself,  gazing  at  the  balcony, — the 
only  person  visible  at  that  moment  in  all  the  place.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  Duke  of  Albany  appeared  below  it,  making  the  sig- 
nal to  which  I  had  been  accustomed ;  and  then  I,  in  my  horrible 
folly,  became  visible  to  the  eyes  of  both,  and  let  down  the  ladder. 

''  Meantime  Lurcanio,  beginning  to  be  very  uneasy  at  the  mys- 
terious situation  in  which  he  found  himself,  and  to  have  the  most 
alarming  fears  for  his  brother,  had  cautiously  picked  his  way 
after  him  at  a  little  distance ;  so  that  he  also,  though  still  hidden 
in  the  shade  of  the  lonely  houses,  perceived  all  that  was  going  on. 

"  I  was  dressed,  as  I  had  undertaken  to  be,  in  the  identical 
clothes  which  the  princess  had  put  off  that  night ;  and  as  I  was 
not  unlike  her  in  air  and  figure,  and  wore  the  golden  net  with 
red  tassels  peculiar  to  ladies  of  the  royal  family,  and  the  two 
brothers,  besides,  were  at  quite  sufficient  distance  to  be  deceived, 
I  was  taken  by  both  of  them  for  her  very  self.  The  duke  impa- 
tiently mounted  the  ladder ;  I  received  him  as  impatiently  in  my 
arms ;  and  circumstances,  though  from  very  different  feelings, 
rendered  the  caresses  that  passed  between  us  of  unusual  ardour. 

"  You  may  imagine  the  grief  of  Ariodante.  It  rose  at  once  to 
despair.  He  did  not  call  out ;  so  that,  had  not  his  brother  followed 
him,  still  worse  would  have  ensued  than  did  ;  for  he  drew  his 
sword,  and  was  proceeding  in  distraction  to  fall  upon  it,  when 
Lurcanio  rushed  in  and  stopped  him.  'Miserable  brother!'  ex- 
claimed he,  '  are  you  mad  ?  Would  you  die  for  a  woman  like 
this  ?  You  see  what  a  wretch  she  is.  I  discern  all  your  case 
at  once,  and,  thank  God,  have  preserved  you  to  turn  your  sword 
where  it  ought  to  be  turned,  against  the  defender  of  such  a  pat- 
tern of  infamy." 

"  Ariodante  put  up  his  sword,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  led 
away  by  his  brother.  He  even  pretended,  in  a  little  while,  to  be 
able  to  review  his  condition  calmly,  but  not  the  less  had  he  se- 
cretly resolved  to  perish.  Next  day  he  disappeared,  nobody 
knew  whither ;  and  about  eight  days  afterwards,  news  was  se- 


ARIODANTE  AND   GINEVRA.  387 

cretly  brought  to  Ginevra,  by  a  pilgrim,  tliat  he  had  thrown  liim- 
self  from  a  headland  into  the  sea. 

"  '  I  met  him  by  chance,'  said  the  pilgrim,  '  and  we  happened 
to  be  standing  on  the  top  of  the  headland,  conversing,  when  he 
cried  out  to  me,  '  Relate  to  the  princess  what  you  beheld  on  part- 
ing from  me  ;  and  add,  that  the  cause  of  it  was  my  having  seen 
too  much.  Happy  had  it  been  for  me  had  I  been  blind!'  And 
with  these  words,'  concluded  the  pilgrim,  '  he  leaped  into  the  sea 
below,  and  was  instantly  buried  beneath  it.' 

"  The  princess  turned  as  pale  as  death  at  this  story,  and  for  a 
while  remained  stupitied.  But,  alas !  what  a  scene  was  it  my 
I  fate  to  witness,  when  she  found  herself  in  her  chamber  at  night, 
able  to  give  way  to  her  misery.  She  tore  her  clothes,  and  her 
very  flesh,  and  her  beautiful  hair,  and  kept  repeating  the  last 
words  of  her  lover  with  amazement  and  despair. 

The  disappearance  of  Ariodante,  and  a  rumour  which  trans- 
pired of  his  having  slain  himself  on  account  of  some  hidden  an- 
guish, surprised  and  afllicted  the  whole  court.  But  his  brother 
Lurcanio  evinced  more  and  more  his  impatience  at  it,  and  let 
fall  the  most  terrible  words.  At  length  he  entered  the  court  when 
the  king  was  holding  one  of  his  fullest  assemblies,  and  laid  open, 
as  he  thought,  the  whole  matter ;  setting  forth  how  his  unhappy 
brother  had  secretly,  but  honourably,  loved  the  princess  ;  how 
she  had  professed  to  love  him  in  return  ;  and  how  she  had  grossly 
deceived  him,  and  played  him  impudently  false  before  his  own 
eyes.  He  concluded  with  calling  upon  her  unknown  paramour 
to  come  forth,  and  shew  reasons  against  him  with  his  sword  why 
she  ought  not  to  die. 

*'  I  need  not  tell  you  what  the  king  suffered  at  hearing  this 
'strange  and  terrible  recital.  He  lost  no  time  in  sharply  investi- 
gating the  truth  of  the  allegation  ;  and  for  this  purpose,  among 
other  proceedings,  he  sent  for  the  ladies  of  his  daughter's  cham- 
ber. You  may  judge,  sir, — especially  as,  I  blush  to  say  it,  I  still 
loved  the  Duke  of  Albany, — that  I  could  not  await  an  examina- 
tion like  that.  I  hastened  to  meet  the  duke,  who  was  as  anxious 
to  get  me  out  of  the  way  as  I  was  to  go  ;  and  to  this  end  profess- 
ing the  greatest  zeal  for  my  security,  he  commissioned  two  men 

to  convey  me  secretly  to  a  fortress  he  possessed   in  this  forest. 

2* 


388  ARIODANTE  AND   GINEVRA. 


"Tis  at  no  great  distance  from  the  place  where  Heaven  sent  you 
to  my  deliverance.  You  saw,  sir,  how  little  those  wretches  in- 
tended to  take  me  anywhere  except  to  my  grave  ;  and  by  this 
you  may  judge  of  the  agonies  and  shame  I  have  endured  in  know- 
ing what  a  dupe  I  have  been  to  one  of  the  crudest  of  men.  But 
thus  it  is  that  Love  treats  his  most  faithful  servants." 

The  damsel  here  concluded  her  story  ;  and  the  Paladin,  re- 
joicing at  having  become  possessed  of  all  that  was  required  to 
establish  the  falsehood  of  the  duke,  proceeded  with  her  on  his  road 
to  St.  Andrews,  where  the  lists  had  been  set  up  for  the  determi- 
nation of  the  question.  The  king  and  his  court  were  anxiously 
praying  at  that  instant  for  the  arrival  of  some  champion  to  fight 
with  the  dreaded  Lurcanio  ;  for  the  month,  as  I  have  stated,  was 
nearly  expired,  and  this  terrible  brother  appeared  to  have  the  bu- 
siness all  his  own  way  ;  so  that  the  stake  was  soon  to  be  looked 
for  at  which  the  hapless  Ginevra  was  to  die. 

Fast  and  eagerly  the  Paladin  rode  for  St.  Andrews,  with  his 
squire  and  the  trembling  damsel,  who  was  now  agitated  for  new 
reasons,  though  the  knight  gave  her  assurances  of  his  protection. 
They  were  not  far  from  the  city  when  they  found  people  talking 
of  a  champion  who  had  certainly  arrived,  but  whose  name 
was  unknown,  and  his  face  constantly  concealed  by  his  visor. 
Even  his  own  squire,  it  seems,  did  not  know  him  ;  for  the  man  had 
but  lately  been  taken  into  his  service.  Rinaldo,  as  soon  as  he 
entered  the  city,  left  the  damsel  in  a  place  of  security,  and  then 
spurred  his  horse  to  the  scene  of  action,  when  he  found  the  accu- 
ser and  the  champion  in  the  very  midst  of  the  fight.  The  Pala- 
din, whose  horse,  notwithstanding  the  noise  of  the  combat,  had 
been  heard  coming  like  a  tempest,  and  whose  sudden  and  heroical 
appearance  turned  all  eyes  towards  him,  rode  straight  to  the  royal 
canopy,  and,  begging  the  king  to  stop  the  combat,  disclosed  the 
whole  state  of  the  matter,  to  the  enchantment  of  all  present,  ex- 
cept the  Duke  of  Albany  ;  for  the  villain  himself  was  on  horse- 
back there  in  state  as  grand  constable,  and  had  been  feasting  his 
miserable  soul  with  the  hope  of  seeing  Ginevra  condemned.  The 
combatants  were  soon  changed.  Instead  of  Lurcanio  and  the  un- 
known  champion  (whom  the  new  comer  had  taken  care  to  extol 
for  his  generosity),  it  was  the  Paladin  and  the  Duke  that  were  op- 


ARIODANTE  AND   GINEVRA.  389 

posed,  and  horribly  did  the  latter's  lieart  fail  him.  But  he  had 
no  remedy.  Fight  he  must.  Rinaldo,  desirous  to  make  short 
work  of  him,  took  his  station  with  fierce  delight ;  and  at  the  tliird 
sound  of  the  trumpets,  the  Duke  was  forced  to  couch  his  spear 
and  meet  him  at  full  charge.  Sheer  went  the  Paladin's  ashen 
start' throujTh  the  false  bosom,  sendinij  the  villain  to  the  earth  eiirht 
feet  beyond  the  saddle.  The  conqueror  dismounted  instantly,  and 
unlacing  the  man's  helmet,  enabled  the  king'  to  hear  his  dying 
confession,  which  he  had  hardly  finished  when  life  forsook  him. 
Rinaldo  then  took  off  his  own  helmet ;  and  the  king,  who  had  seen 
the  great  Paladin  before,  and  who  felt  more  rejoiced  at  his  daugh- 
ter's deliverance  than  if  he  had  lost  and  regained  his  crown,  lifted 
up  his  hands  to  heaven,  and  thanked  God  for  having  honoured  her 
innocence  with  so  illustrious  a  defender. 

The  other  champion,  who,  in  the  mean  time,  had  been  looking 
on  through  the  eyelets  of  his  visor,  was  now  entreated  to  disclose 
his  own  face.  He  did  so  with  peculiar  emotion,  and  king  and  all 
recognised  with  transport  the  face  of  the  loved,  and,  as  it  was 
supposed,  lost  Ariodante,  The  pilgrim,  however,  had  told  no 
falsehood.  The  lover  had  indeed  thrown  himself  into  the  sea,  and 
disappeared  from  the  man's  eyes  ;  but  (as  oftener  happens  than 
people  suppose)  the  death  which  was  desired  when  not  present 
became  hated  when  it  was  so  ;  and  Ariodante,  lover  as  he  was, 
rising  at  a  little  distance,  struck  out  lustily  for  the  shore,  and 
reached  it.*  He  felt  even  a  secret  contempt  for  his  attempt  to 
kill  himself;  yet  putting  up  at  an  hermitage,  became  interested 
in  the  reports  concerning  the  princess,  whose  sorrow  flattered,  and 
whose  danger,  though  lie  could  not  cease  to  think  her  guilty,  af- 
flicted him.  He  grew  exasperated  with  the  very  brother  he  loved, 
when  he  found  that  Lurcanio  pursued  her  thus  to  the  death  ;  and 
on  all  these  accounts  he  made  his  appearance  at  the  place  of  com- 
bat to  fight  him,  though  not  to  slay.  His  purpose  was  to  seek  his 
own  death.  He  concluded  that  Ginevra  would  then  see  who  it 
was  that  had  really  loved  her,  while  his  brother  would  mourn  the 
rashness  which  made  him  pursue  the  destruction  of  a  woman. 

*  Tills  is  quite  in  Ariosto's  high  and  bold  taste  for  truth  under  all  circumstan- 
ces. A  less  great  and  unraisgiving  poet  would  have  had  the  lover  picked  up  by 
a  fisherman. 


390  ARIODANTE  AND   GINEVRA. 

"  Guilty  she  is,"  thought  he,  "  but  no  such  guilt  can  deserve  so 
cruel  a  punishment.  Besides,  I  could  not  bear  that  she  should 
die  before  me.  She  is  still  the  woman  I  love,  still  the  idol  of  my 
thoughts.     Right  or  wrong,  I  must  die  in  her  behalf." 

With  this  intention  he  purchased  a  suit  of  black  armour,  and 
obtained  a  squire  unknown  in  those  parts,  and  so  made  his  ap- 
pearance in  the  lists.  What  ensued  there  I  need  not  repeat ;  but 
the  king  was  so  charmed  with  the  issue  of  the  whole  business, 
with  the  resuscitation  of  the  favourite  whom  he  thought  dead,  and 
the  restoration  of  the  more  than  life  of  his  beloved  daughter,  that, 
to  the  joy  of  all  Scotland,  and  at  the  special  instance  of  the  great 
Paladin,  he  made  the  two  lovers  happy  without  delay  ;  and  the 
bride  brought  her  husband  for  dowry  the  title  and  estates  of  the 
man  who  had  wronged  him. 


SUSPICION. 


SUSPICION.* 


It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a  nobler  thing  in  the  world  than  a 
just  prince — a  thoroughly  good  man,  who  shuns  no  part  of  the 
burden  of  his  duty,  though  it  bend  him  double  ;  who  loves  and 
cares  for  his  people  as  a  father  does  for  his  children,  and  who  is 
almost  incessantly  occupied  in  their  welfare,  very  seldom  for  his 
own. 

Such  a  man  puts  himself  in  front  of  dangers  and  difficulties  in 
order  that  he  may  be  a  shield  to  others ;  for  he  is  not  a  merce- 
nary, taking  care  of  none  but  himself  when  he  sees  the  wolf 
coming  ;  he  is  the  right  good  shepherd,  staking  his  own  life  in 
that  of  his  flock,  and  knowing  the  faces  of  every  one  of  them, 
just  as  they  do  his  own. 

Such  princes,  in  times  of  old,  were  Saturn,  Hercules,  Jupiter, 
and  others — men  who  reigned  gently,  yet  firmly,  equal  to  all 
chances  that  came,  and  worthy  of  the  divine  honours  that  awaited 
them.     For  mankind  could  not  believe  that  they  quitted  the  world 

*  This  daring  and  grand  apologue  is  not  in  the  Purioso,  but  in  a  poem  which 
Ariosto  loft  unlinished,  and  which  goes  under  the  name  of  the  Five  Cantos. 
The  fragment,  though  bearing  marks  of  want  of  correction,  is  in  some  re- 
spects a  beautiful,  and  altogether  a  curious  one,  especially  as  it  seems  to  have 
been  written  after  the  Furioso ;  for  it  touclies  in  a  remarkable  manner  on  sev- 
eral points  of  morals  and  politics,  and  contains  on  extravagance  wilder  than 
any  tiling  iii  Puici, — a  whale  inhabited  by  knights !  It  was  most  hkcly  for 
these  reasons  that  his  friend  Bembo  and  others  advised  him  to  suppress  it. 
Was  it  written  in  his  youth  1  The  apologue  itself  is  not  one  of  the  least 
daring  attacks  on  the  Borgias  and  such  scoundrels,  who  had  just  then  afflicted 
Italy. 

Did  Ariosto,  by  the  way,  omit  jVIacchiavelli  in  his  list  of  the  friends  who 
hailed  the  close  of  his  great  poem,  from  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  his  book 
entitled  the  Prince  ?  It  has  perplexed  all  the  world  to  this  day,  and  is  not  un- 
likely to  have  made  a  particularly  unpleasant  impression  on  a  mind  at  once  so 
candid  and  humane  as  Ariosto's. 


394  SUSPICION. 


in  the  same  way  as  other  men.     They  thought  they  must  be 
taken  up  into  heaven  to  be  the  lords  of  demigods. 

When  the  prince  is  good,  the  subjects  are  good,  for  they  always 
imitate  their  masters  ;  or  at  least,  if  the  subjects  cannot  attain  to 
this  height  of  virtue,  they  at  least  are  not  as  bad  as  they  would 
be  otherwise ;  and,  at  all  events,  public  decency  is  observed. 
Oh,  blessed  kingdoms  that  are  governed  by  such  hearts !  and  oh, 
most  miserable  ones  that  are  at  the  mercy  of  a  man  without  jus- 
tice, a  fellow-creature  without  feelings  ! 

Our  Italy  is  full  of  such,  who  will  have  their  reward  from  the 
pens  of  posterity.  Greater  wretches  never  appeared  in  the  shapes 
of  Neros  and  Caligulas,  or  any  other  such  monsters,  let  them 
have  been  who  they  might.  I  enter  not  into  particulars  ;  for  it 
is  always  better  to  speak  of  the  dead  than  the  living ;  but  I  must 
say,  that  Agrigentum  never  fared  worse  under  Phalaris,  nor 
Syracuse  under  Dionysius,  nor  Thebes  in  the  hand  of  the  bloody 
tyrant  Eteocles,  even  though  all  those  wretches  were  villains  by 
whose  orders  every  day,  without  fault,  without  even  charge,  men 
were  sent  by  dozens  to  the  scaffold  or  into  hopeless  exile. 

But  they  are  not  without  torments  of  their  own.  At  the  core 
of  their  own  hearts  there  stands  an  inflicter  of  no  less  agonies. 
There  he  stands  every  day  and  every  moment — one  who  was 
born  of  the  same  mother  with  Wrath,  and  Cruelty,  and  Rapine, 
and  who  never  ceased  tormenting  his  infant  brethren  before  they 
saw  the  light.     His  name  is  Suspicion.* 

Yes,  Suspicion  ; — the  crudest  visitation,  the  worst  evil  spirit 
and  pest  that  ever  haunted  with  its  poisonous  whisper  the  mind  of 
human  being.  This  is  their  tormentor  by  excellence.  He  does 
not  trouble  the  poor  and  lowly.  He  agonises  the  brain  in  the 
proud  heads  of  those  whom  fortune  has  put  over  the  heads  of  their 
fellow-creatures.  Well  may  the  man  hug  himself  on  his  free- 
dom who  fears  nobody  because  nobody  hates  him.     Tyrants  are 

♦  A  tremendous  fancy  this  last ! 

"  Sta  lor  la  pena,  de  la  qual  dicea 

Che  nacque  quando  la  brutt'  Ira  nacque, 

La  Crudeltade,  e  la  Rapina  rea ; 
E  quantunque  in  un  ventre  con  lor  giacque, 

Di  tormentarle  raai  non  rinianea." 


SUSPICION.  395 


in  perpetual  tear.  They  never  cease  thinking  of  the  mortal  re- 
venge taken  upon  tormentors  of  their  species  openly  or  in  secret. 
The  fear  wliich  all  men  feel  of  the  one  single  wretch,  makes  tiie 
single  wretch  afraid  of  every  soul  among  them. 

Hear  a  story  of  one  of  these  miserables,  which,  wliatever  you 
may  think  of  it,  is  true  to  the  letter ;  such  letter,  at  all  events,  as 
is  written  upon  the  hearts  of  his  race.  He  was  one  of  the  first 
who  took  to  the  custom  of  wearing  beards  ;  for,  great  as  he  was, 
he  had  a  fear  of  the  race  of  barbers !  He  built  a  tower  in  his 
palace,  guarded  by  deep  ditches  and  thick  walls.  It  had  but  one 
drawbridge  and  one  bay-window.  There  was  no  other  opening  ; 
so  that  the  very  light  of  day  had  scarcely -admittance,  or  the  in- 
mates a  place  to  breathe  at.  In  this  tower  he  slept ;  and  it  was 
his  wife's  business  to  put  a  ladder  down  for  him  when  he  came 
in.  A  dog  kept  watch  at  the  drawbridge  ;  and  except  the  dog 
and  the  wife,  not  a  soul  was  to  be  discerned  about  the  place. 
Yet  he  had  such  little  trust  in  her,  that  he  always  sent  spies  to 
look  about  the  room  before  he  withdrew  for  the  night. 

Of  what  use  was  it  all  ?  The  woman  herself  killed  him  with 
his  own  sword,  and  his  soul  went  straight  to  hell. 

Rhadamanthus,  the  judge  there,  thrust  him  under  the  boiling 
lake,  but  was  astonished  to  find  that  he  betrayed  no  symptoms  of 
anguish.  He  did  not  weep  and  howl  as  the  rest  did,  or  cry  out, 
"  I  burn,  I  burn  !"  He  evinced  so  little  suffering,  that  Rhada- 
manthus said,  "  I  must  put  this  fellow  into  other  quarters."  Ac- 
cordingly, he  sent  him  into  the  lowest  pit,  where  the  torments  are 
bevond  all  others. 

Nevertheless,  even  here  he  seemed  to  be  under  no  distress. 
At  length  they  asked  him  the  reason.  The  wretch  then  candidly 
acknowledged,  that  hell  itself  had  no  torments  for  him,  compared 
with  those  which  suspicion  had  given  him  on  earth. 

The  safjcs  of  hell  laid  their  heads  together  at  this  news. 
Amelioration  of  his  lot  on  the  part  of  a  sinner  was  not  to  be 
thought  of  in  a  place  of  eternal  punishment ;  so  they  called  a 
parliament  together,  the  result  of  which  was  an  unanimous  con- 
clusion, that  the  man  should  be  sent  back  to  earth,  and  consigned 
to  the  torments  of  suspicion  for  ever. 

He  went ;  and  the  earthly  fiend  re-entered  his  being  anew  with 


396  SUSPICION. 


a  subtlety  so  incorporate,  that  their  two  natures  were  identified, 
and  he  became  Suspicion  itself.  Fruits  are  thus  engrafted  on 
wild  stocks.  One  colour  thus  becomes  the  parent  of  many, 
when  the  painter  takes  a  portion  of  this  and  of  that  from  his 
palette  in  order  to  imitate  flesh. 

The  new  being  took  up  his  abode  on  a  rock  by  the  sea-shore,  a 
thousand  feet  high,  girt  all  about  with  mouldering  crags,  which 
threatened  every  instant  to  fall.  It  had  a  fortress  on  the  top,  the 
approach  to  which  was  by  seven  drawbridges,  and  seven  gates, 
each  locked  up  more  strongly  than  the  other ;  and  here,  now  this 
moment,  constantly  thinking  Death  is  upon  him.  Suspicion  lives 
in  everlasting  terror.  He  is  alone.  He  is  ever  watching.  He 
cries  out  from  the  battlements,  to  see  that  the  guards  are  awake 
below,  and  never  does  he  sleep  day  or  night.  He  wears  mail 
upon  mail,  and  mail  again,  and  feels  the  less  safe  the  more  he  puts 
oh  ;  and  is  always  altering  and  strengthening  everything  on  gate, 
and  on  barricade,  and  on  ditch,  and  on  wall.  And  do  whatever 
he  will,  he  never  seems  to  have  done  enough. 


Great  poet,  and  good  man,  Ariosto !  your  terrors  are  better  than  Dante's  ;  for 
they  warn,  as  far  as  warning  can  do  good,  and  they  neither  afflict  humanity 
nor  degrade  God. 

Spenser  has  imitated  this  subUme  piece  of  pleasantry ;  for,  by  a  curious  inter- 
mixture of  all  which  the  mind  can  experience  from  such  a  fiction,  pleasant  it  is 
in  the  midst  of  its  sublimity, — laughable  with  satirical  archness,  as  well  as  grand 
and  terrible  in  the  climax.  The  transformation  in  Spenser  is  from  a  jealous 
man  mto  Jealousy.  His  wife  has  gone  to  live  with  the  Satyrs,  and  a  villain 
has  stolen  his  money.  The  husband,  in  order  to  persuade  his  wife  to  return, 
steals  into  the  horde  of  the  Satyrs,  by  mixing  with  their  flock  of  goats, — as 
Norandino  does  in  a  passage  imitated  from  Homer  by  Ariosto.  The  wife  flatly 
refuses  to  do  any  such  thing,  and  the  poor  wretck  is  obliged  to  steal  out  again. 

"  So  soon  as  he  the  prison-door  did  pass. 
He  ran  as  fast  as  both  his  feet  could  bear, 
And  never  looked  who  behind  him  was, 
Nor  scarcely  who  before.     Like  as  a  bear 
That  creeping  close  among  the  hives,  to  rear 
An  honeycomb,  the  wakeful  dogs  espy, 
And  him  assailing,  sore  his  carcass  tear, 
"  That  hardly  he  away  with  life  does  fly, 

Nor  stays  till  safe  himself  he  see  from  jeopardy. 


SUSPICION.  397 


Nor  stay'd  he  till  he  came  unto  the  place 
Where  late  his  treasure  he  entombed  had  ; 
Where,  when  he  found  it  not  (for  Troinpart  hase 
Had  it  purloined  for  his  master  bad), 
With  extreme  fury  he  became  quite  mad, 
And  ran  away — ran  with  himself  away ; 
That  who  so  strangely  had  him  seen  bestad, 
With  upstart  hair  and  staring  eyes'  dismay, 
From  Limbo-lake  him  late  escaped  sure  would  say. 

High  over  hills  and  over  dales  he  fled, 
As  if  the  wind  him  on  his  wings  had  borne ; 
Nor  bank  nor  bush  could  stay  him,  when  he  sped 
His  nimble  feet,  as  treading  still  on  thorn ; 
Grief  and  Despite,  and  Jealousy,  and  Scorn, 
Did  all  the  way  him  follow  hard  behind ; 
And  he  himself  himself  loath'd  so  forlorn, 
So  shamefully  forlorn  of  womankind. 
That,  as  a  snake,  still  lurkfed  in  liis  wounded  mind. 

Still  fled  he  forward,  looking  backward  still ; 
Nor  stay'd  his  flight  nor  fearful  agony 
Till  that  he  came  unto  a  rocky  hill 
Over  the  sea  suspended  dreadfully, 
That  living  creature  it  would  terrify 
To  look  a-down,  or  upward  to  the  height : 
From  thence  he  threw  himself  dispiteously, 
All  desperate  of  his  fore-damnfed  spright, 
That  seem'd  no  help  for  him  was  lefl  in  living  sight. 

But  through  long  anoruish  and  self-murd'ring  thought, 
He  was  so  wasted  and  forpinfed  quite, 
That  all  his  substance  was  consumed  to  nought. 
And  nothing  left  but  like  an  airy  sprite ; 
That  on  the  rocks  he  fell  so  flit  and  light. 
That  he  thereby  received  no  hurt  at  all ; 
But  chancfed  on  a  craggy  clitT  to  light ; 
Whence  he  with  crooked  claws  so  long  did  crawl, 
That  at  the  last  he  found  a  cave  with  entrance  small. 

Into  the  same  he  creeps,  and  thenceforth  there 
Resolved  to  build. his  baleful  mansion. 
In  dreary  darkness,  and  continual  fear 
Of  that  rock's  fall,  which  ever  and  anon 
Threats  with  huge  ruin  hiiu  to  f.dl  upon, 
That  he  dare  never  sleep,  but  that  one  eye 
Still  ope  he  keeps  for  that  occasion  j 


398  SUSPICION. 


Nor  ever  rests  he  in  tranquillity, 
The  roaring  billows  beat  his  bower  so  boisterously. 

Nor  ever  is  he  wont  on  aught  to  feed 
But  toads  and  frogs,  his  pasture  poisonous, 
Which  in  his  cold  complexion  do  breed 
A  filthy  blood,  or  humour  rancorous, 
Matter  of  doubt  and  dread  suspicious, 
That  doth  with  cureless  care  consume  the  heart, 
Corrupts  the  stomach  with  gall  vicious, 
Cross-cuts  the  liver  with  internal  smart, 
And  doth  transfix  the  soul  with  death's  eternal  dart. 

Yet  can  he  never  die,  but  dying  lives, 
And  doth  himself  with  sorrow  new  sustain. 
That  death  and  life  at  once  unto  him  gives, 
And  painful  pleasure  turns  to  pleasing  pain ; 
There  dwells  he  ever,  miserable  swain. 
Hateful  both  to  himself  and  every  wight ; 
Where  he,  through  privy  grief  and  horror  vain, 
Is  waxen  so  deformed,  that  he  has  quite 
Forgot  he  was  a  man,  and  Jealousy  is  hight." 

Spenser's  picture  is  more  subtly  wrought  and  imaginative  than  Ariosto's; 
but  it  removes  the  man  farther  from  ourselves,  except  under  very  special  circum- 
stances. Indeed,  it  might  be  taken  rather  for  a  picture  of  hypochondria  than 
jealousy,  and  under  that  aspect  is  very  appalling.  But  nothing,  under  more 
obvious  circumstances,  comes  so  dreadfully  home  to  us  as  Ariosto's  poor  wretch 
feeling  himself  "  the  less  safe  the  more  he  puts  on,"  and  calling  out  dismally 
from  his  tower,  a  thousand  feet  high,  to  the  watchers  and  warders  below  to  see 
that  all  is  secure. 


ISABELLA. 


ISABELLA.* 


RoDOMONT,  King  of  Algiers,  was  the  fiercest  of  all  the  enemies 
of  Christendom,  not  out  of  love  for  iiis  own  fiiith  (for  he  had  no 
piety),  but  out  of  hatred  to  those  that  opposed  him.  He  had  now 
quarrelled,  however,  with  his  friends  too.  He  had  been  rejected 
by  a  lady,  in  favour  of  the  Tartar  king,  Mandricardo,  and  mor- 
tified by  the  publicity  of  the  rejection  before  his  own  lord  para- 
mount, Agraniante,  the  leader  of  the  infidel  armies.  He  could 
not  bear  the  rejection  ;  he  could  not  bear  tlie  sanction  of  it  by 
his  liege  lord  ;  he  resolved  to  quit  the  scene  of  warfare  and  re- 
turn to  Africa  ;  and,  in  the  course  of  his  journey  thither,  he  had 
come  into  the  south  of  France,  where,  observing  a  sequestered 
spot  that  suited  his  humour,  he  changed  his  mind  as  to  going 
home,  and  persuaded  himself  he  could  live  in  it  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  He  accordingly  took  up  his  abode  with  his  attendants  in  a 
chapel,  which  had  been  deserted  by  its  clergy  during  the  rage 
of  war. 

This  vehement  personage  was  standing  one  morning  at  the 
door  of  the  chapel  in  a  state  of  unusual  thoughtfulness,  when  he 
beheld  coming  towards  him,  through  a  path  in  the  green  meadow 
before  it,  a  lady  of  a  lovely  aspect,  accompanied  by  a  bearded 
monk.  They  were  followed  by  something  covered  with  black, 
which  they  were  bringing  along  on  a  great  horse. 

Alas !  the  lady  was  the  widow  of  Zerbino,  the  Scottish  prmce, 

*  The  ingenious  martyrdom  in  lliis  story,  wliich  has  been  told  by  other  wri- 
ters of  fiction,  is  taken  from  an  alleged  fact  related  in  Barbaro's  treatise  De  He 
Uxoria.  It  is  said,  indeed,  to  have  been  actually  resorted  to  more  than  once ; 
and  possibly  may  have  been  so,  even  from  a  knowledge  of  it ;  for  what  is  more 
natural  with  heroical  minds  than  that  the  like  outrages  should  produce  the  like 
virtues  ?  But  the  colouring  of  Ariosto's  narration  is  peculiarly  his  own ;  and 
his  apostrophe  at  the  close  beautiful. 


402  ISABELLA. 


who  spared  the  life  of  Medoro,  and  who  now  himself  lay  dead 
under  that  pall.  He  had  expired  in  her  arms  from  wounds  in- 
flicted during  a  combat  with  Mandricardo ;  and  she  had  been 
thrown  by  the  loss  into  such  anguish  of  mind  that  she  would 
have  died  on  his  sword  but  for  the  intervention  of  the  hermit  now 
with  her,  who  persuaded  her  to  devote  the  rest  of  her  days  to 
God  in  a  nunnery.  She  had  now  come  into  Provence  with  the 
good  man  for  that  purpose,  and  to  bury  the  corpse  of  her  husband 
in  the  chapel  which  they  were  approaching. 

Though  the  lady  seemed  lost  in  grief,  and  was  very  pale,  and 
had  her  hair  all  about  the  ears,  and  though  she  did  nothing  but 
weep  and  lament,  and  looked  in  all  respects  quite  borne  down 
with  her  misery,  nevertheless  she  was  still  so  beautiful  that  love 
and  grace  appeared  to  be  indestructible  in  her  aspect.  The  mo- 
ment the  Saracen  beheld  her,  he  dismissed  from  his  mind  all  the 
determinations  he  had  made  to  hate  and  detest 

The  gentle  bevy,  that  adorns  the  world. 

He  was  bent  solely  on  obtaining  the  new  angel  before  him.  She 
seemed  precisely  the  sort  of  person  to  make  him  forget  the  one 
that  had  rejected  him.  Advancing,  therefore,  to  meet  her  with- 
out delay,  he  begged,  in  as  gentle  a  manner  as  he  could  assume, 
to  know  the  cause  of  her  sorrow. 

The  lady,  with  all  the  candour  of  wretchedness,  explained 
who  she  was,  and  how  precious  a  burden  she  was  conveying  to 
its  last  home,  and  the  resolution  she  had  taken  to  withdraw  from 
a  vain  world  into  the  service  of  God.  The  proud  pagan,  who 
had  no  belief  in  a  God,  much  less  any  respect  for  restraints  or 
fidelities  of  what  kind  soever,  forgot  his  assumed  gravity  when 
he  heard  this  determination,  and  laughed  outright  at  the  simplicity 
of  such  a  proceeding.  He  pronounced  it,  in  his  peremptory  way, 
to  be  foolish  and  frivolous ;  compared  it  with  the  miser  who,  in 
burying  a  treasure,  does  good  neither  to  himself  nor  any  one 
else :  and  said  that  lions  and  serpents  might  indeed  be  shut  up 
in  cages,  but  not  things  lovely  and  innocent. 

The  monk,  overhearing  these  observations,  thought  it  his  duty 
to  interfere.     He  calmly  opposed  all  which  the  other  asserted, 


ISABELLA,  4o:j 


and  then  proceeded  to  set  forth  a  repast  of  spiritual  consolation 
not  at  all  to  the  Saracen's  taste.  The  fierce  warrior  interrupted 
the  preacher  several  times  ;  told  him  that  he  had  notiiin«r  to  do 
"svith  the  lady,  and  that  the  sooner  he  returned  to  his  cell  the  bet- 
ter ;  but  the  hermit,  nothing  daunted,  went  on  with  his  advice 
till  his  antagonist  lost  all  .patience.  He  laid  hands  on  his  sacred 
person  ;  seized  him  by  the  beard  ;  tore  away  as  much  of  it  as  he 
grasped  ;  and  at  length  worked  himself  up  into  such  a  pitch  of 
fury,  that  he  griped  the  good  man's  throat  with  all  the  force  of  a 
pair  of  pincers,  and,  swinging  him  twice  or  thrice  round,  as  one 
might  a  doij,  flung  him  olf  the  headland  into  the  sea. 

What  became  of  the  poor  creature  I  cannot  say.  Reports  arc 
various.  Some  tell  us  that  he  was  found  on  the  rocks,  dashed  all 
to  pieces,  so  that  you  could  not  distinguish  foot  from  head  ;  others, 
that  he  fell  into  the  sea  at  the  distance  of  three  miles,  and  perish- 
ed in  consequence  of  not  knowing  how  to  swim,  in  spite  of  the 
prayers  and  tears  that  he  addressed  to  Heaven  ;  others  again  af- 
firm, that  a  saint  came  and  assisted  him,  and  drew  him  to  shore 
before  people's  eyes.  I  must  leave  the  reader  to  adopt  which  of 
these  accounts  he  looks  upon  as  the  most  probable. 

The  Pagan,  as  soon  as  he  had  thus  disposed  of  the  garrulous 
hermit,  turned  towards  Isabella  (for  that  was  the  lady's  name), 
and  with  a  face  somewhat  less  disturbed,  began  to  talk  to  her  in 
the  common  language  of  gallantry,  protesting  that  she  was  his 
life  and  soul,  and  that  he  should  not  know  what  to  do  without 
her ;  for  the  sweetness  of  her  appearance  mollified  even  him ; 
and  indeed,  with  all  his  violence,  he  would  rather  have  possessed 
her  by  fair  means  than  by  foul.  He  therefore  flattered  himself 
that,  by  a  little  hypocritical  attention,  he  should  dispose  her  to 
return  his  inclinations. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  poor  disconsolate  creature,  who,  in  a  coun- 
try unknown  to  her,  and  a  place  so  remote  from  help,  felt  like  a 
mouse  in  the  cat's  claws,  began  casting  in  her  mind  by  what  possi- 
ble contrivance  she  could  escape  from  such  a  wretch  with  honour. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  perish  by  her  own  hand,  rather  than 
be  faithless,  however  unwillingly,  to  the  dear  husband  that  had 
died  in  her  arms  :  but  the  question  was,  how  she  could  protect  her- 
self from  the  pagan's  violence,  before  she  had  secured  the  means 

PART  in.  3 


404  ISABELLA. 


of  so  doing ;  for  his  manner  was  becoming  very  impatient,  am 
his  speeches  every  moment  less  and  less  civil. 

At  length  an  expedient  occurred  to  her.  She  told  him,  that  ii 
he  would  promise  to  respect  her  virtue,  she  would  put  him  ii 
possession  of  a  secret  that  would  redound  far  more  to  his  honou 
and  glory,  than  any  wrong  which  he  could  inflict  on  the  innocent 
She  conjured  him  not  to  throw  away  the  satisfaction  he  wouh 
experience  all  the  rest  of  his  life  from  the  consciousness  of  havinc 
done  right,  for  the  sake  of  injuring  one  unliappy  creature.  "  Ther( 
were  thousands  of  her  sex,"  she  observed,  "  with  cheerful  as  wel 
as  beautiful  faces,  who  might  rejoice  in  his  aiFection ;  whereas 
the  secret  she  spoke  of  was  known  to  scarcely  a  soul  on  eartl 
but  herself." 

She  then  told  him  the  secret ;  which  consisted  in  the  prepara. 
tion  of  a  certain  herb  boiled  with  ivy  and  rue  over  a  fire  of  cypress- 
wood,  and  squeezed  into  a  cup  by  hands  that  had  never  dont 
haian.  The  juice  thus  obtained,  if  applied  fresh  every  month 
had  the  virtue  of  rendering  bodies  invulnerable.  Isabella  saic 
she  had  seen  the  herb  in  the  neighbourhood,  as  she  came  along 
and  that  she  would  not  only  make  the  preparation  forthwith,  bu^ 
let  its  effects  be  proved  on  her  own  person.  She  only  stipulated 
that  the  receiver  of  the  gift  should  swear  not  to  offend  her  puritj 
in  deed  or  word. 

The  fierce  infidel  took  the  oath  immediately.  It  delighted  hiii 
to  think  that  he  should  be  enabled  to  have  his  fill  of  war  anc 
slaughter  for  nothing  ;  and  the  oath  was  the  more  easy  to  him, 
inasmuch  as  he  had  no  intention  of  keeping  it. 

The  poor  Isabella  went  into  the  fields  to  look  for  her  miracu- 
lous  herb,  still,  however,  attended  by  the  Saracen,  who  woulc 
not  let  her  go  out  of  his  sight.  She  soon  found  it ;  and  thee 
going  with  him  into  his  house,  passed  the  rest  of  the  day  and  the 
whole  night  in  preparing  the  mixture  with  busy  solemnity, — Ro- 
domont  always  remaining  with  her. 

The  room  became  so  hot  and  close  with  the  fire  of  cypress- 
wood,  that  the  Saracen,  contrary  to  his  lav/  and  indeed  to  his  habits, 
indulged  himself  in  drinking ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that,  as 
soon  as  it  was  morning,  Isabella  lost  no  time  in  proving  to  him 
the  success  of  her  operations.     "  Now,"  she  said,  "  you  shall  be 


ISABELLA.  405 


convinced  liow  mncli  in  earnest  I  have  been.  You  shall  see  all 
the  virtue  of  this  blessed  preparation.  I  have  only  to  bathe  my- 
self thus,  over  the  head  and  neck,  and  if  you  then  strike  nie  with 
all  your  force,  as  though  you  intended  to  cut  otFmy  head, — which 
you  must  do  in  good  earnest, — you  will  see  tiic  wonderful  re- 
sult." 

With  a  glad  and  rejoicing  countenance  the  paragon  of  virtue 
held  forth  her  neck  to  the  sword  ;  and  the  bestial  pagim,  giving 
way  to  his  natural  violence,  and  heated  perhaps  beyond  all 
thought  of  a  suspicion  with  his  wine,  dealt  it  so  fierce  a  blow,  that 
the  head  leaped  from  the  shoulders. 

Thrice  it  bounded  on  the  ground  where  it  fell,  and  a  clear 
voice  was  heard  to  come  out  of  it,  calling  the  name  of  "  Zerbino," 
doubtless  in  joy  of  the  rare  way  which  its  owner  had  found  of 
escaping  from  the  Saracen. 

O  blessed  soul,  that  heldest  thy  virtue  and  thy  fidelity  dearer 
to  thee  than  life  and  youth  !  go  in  peace,  thou  soul  blessed  and 
beautiful.  If  any  words  of  mine  could  have  force  in  them  suffi- 
cient to  endure  so  long,  hard  would  I  labour  to  give  them  all  the 
worthiness  that  art  can  bestow,  so  that  the  world  might  rejoice  in 
tliy  name  for  thousands  and  thousands  of  years.  Go  in  peace, 
and  take  thy  seat  in  the  skies,  and  be  an  example  to  womankind 
of  faith  beyond  all  weakness. 


TASSO: 


Critical  Notice  of  l)is  £ife  anb  (Scnitxs. 


CRITICAL    NOTICE 


OF 


TASSO'S   LIFE   AND  GENIUS.* 


The  romantic  poetry  of  Italy  having  risen  to  its  highest  and 
apparently  its  most  lawless  pitch  in  the  Orlando  Furioso,  a  re- 
action took  place  in  the  next  age  in  the  Jerusalem  Delivered.  It 
did  not  hurt,  however,  the  popularity  of  Ariosto.  It  only  in- 
creased the  number  of  poetic  readers  ;  and  under  the  auspices, 

*  My  authorities  for  this  notice  are,  Black's  Life  of  Tasso  (2  vols.  4to,  1810), 
his  original,  Serassi,  Vita  di  Tarquato  Tasso  (do.  1790),  and  the  works  of  the 
poet  in  the  Pisan  edition  of  Professor  Rosini  (33  vols.  8vo,  1832).  I  have  been 
indebted  to  nothing  in  Black  which  I  have  not  ascertained  by  reference  to  the 
Italian  biographer,  and  quoted  notliing  stated  by  Tasso  himself  but  from  the 
works.  Black's  Life,  which  is  a  free  version  of  Serassi's,  modified  by  the 
translator's  own  opinions  and  criticism,  is  elegant,  industrious,  and  interesting. 
Serassi's  was  the  first  copious  biography  of  the  poet  founded  on  original  docu- 
ments ;  and  it  deserved  to  be  translated  by  Mr.  Black,  though  servile  to  the 
house  of  Este,  and,  as  might  be  expected,  far  from  being  always  ingenuous. 
Among  other  instances  of  tliis  v^Titer's  want  of  candour  is  the  fact  of  his  having 
been  the  discoverer  and  suppresser  of  the  manuscript  review  of  Tasso  by  Gali- 
leo. The  best  sxmimary  account  of  the  poet's  life  and  writings  which  I  have 
met  with  is  Gingu^ne's,  in  the  fifth  volume  of  his  Histoirc  Ldtteraire,  &c.  It 
is  written  with  liis  usual  grace,  vivacity,  and  acuteness,  and  contains  a  good 
notice  of  the  Tasso  controversy.  As  to  the  Pisan  edition  of  the  works,  it  is 
the  completest,  I  believe,  in  point  of  contents  ever  pubhshed,  comprises  all  the 
controversial  criticism,  and  is,  of  course,  very  useful ;  but  it  contains  no  life 
except  Manso's  (now  known  to  be  very  inconclusive),  has  got  a  heap  of  feeble 
variorum  comments  on  the  Jerusalem,  no  notes  worth  speaking  of  to  the  rest 
of  the  works,  and  notwithstanding  the  claim  in  the  title-page  to  the  merit  of  a 
"  better  order,"  has  left  the  correspondence  in  a  deplorable  state  of  irregularity, 
as  well  as  totally  without  elucidation.  The  learned  Professor  is  an  agreeable  wri- 
ter, and,  I  believe,  a  very  pleasant  man,  but  he  certainly  is  a  provoking  editor. 


410 


TASSO. 


or  rather  the  control,  of  a  Luther-fearing  Church,  produced,  if  not 
as  classical  a  work  as  it  claimed  to  be,  or  one,  in  the  true  sense 
of  the  word,  as  catholic  as  its  predecessor,  yet  certainly  a  far 
more  Roman  Catholic,  and  at  the  same  time  very  delightful  fic- 
tion. The  circle  of  fabulous  narrative  was  thus  completed,  and 
a  link  formed,  though  in  a  very  gentle  and  qualified  manner,  both 
with  Dante's  theocracy  and  the  obvious  regularity  of  the  Mneid^ 
the  oldest  romance  of  Italy. 

The  author  of  this  epic  of  the  Crusades  was  of  a  family  so  no- 
ble  and  so  widely  diifusedy  that,  under  the  patronage  of  the  em- 
perors and  the  Italian  princes,  it  flourished  in  a  very  remarkable 
manner,  not  only  in  its  own  country,  but  in  Flanders,  Germany^ 
and  Spain.  There  was  a  Tasso  once  in  England,  ambassador  of 
Philip  the  Second ;  another,  like  Cervantes,  distinguished  himself 
at  the  battle  of  Lepanto  ;  and  a  third  gave  rise  to  the  sovereign 
German  house  of  Tour  and  Taxis.  Taxus  is  the  Latin  of  Tasso« 
The  Latin  word,  like  the  Italian,  means  both  a  badger  and  a> 
yew-tree  ;  and  the  family  in  general  appear  to  have  taken  it  in 
the  former  sense.  The  animal  is  in  their  coat  of  arms.  But  the 
poet,  or  his  immediate  relatives,  preferred  being  more  romantical- 
ly shadowed  forth  by  the  yew-tree.  The  parent  stock  of  the  race 
was  at  Bergamo  in  Lombardy ;  and  here  was  born  the  father  of 
Tasso,  himself  a  poet  of  celebrity,  though  his  fame  has  been 
eclipsed  by  that  of  his  son. 

Bernardo  Tasso,  author  of  many  elegant  lyrics,  of  some  vol- 
umes of  letters,  not  uninteresting  but  too  florid,  and  of  the  Ama- 
digi,  an  epic  romance  now  little  read,  was  a  man  of  small  prop- 
erty, very  honest  and  good-hearted,  but  restless,  ambitious,  and 
with  a  turn  for  expense  beyond  his  means.  He  attached  himself 
to  various  princes,  with  little  ultimate  advantage,  particularly  ta 
the  unfortunate  Sanseverino,  Prince  of  Salerno,  whom  he  faith- 
fully served  for  many  years.  The  prince  had  a  high  sense  of 
his  worth,  and  would  probably  have  settled  him  in  the  wealth 
and  honours  he  was  qualified  to  adorn,  but  for  those  Spanish  op- 
pressions in  the  history  of  Naples  which  ended  in  the  ruin  of  both 
master  and  servant.  Bernardo,  however,  had  one  happy  interval 
of  prosperity  ;  and  during  this,  at  the  age  of  forty-six,  he  married 
Porzia  di  Rossi,  a  young  lady  of  a  rich  and  noble  family,  with  a 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  411 

claim  to  a  handsome  dowry.  He  spent  some  delightful  years 
with  her  at  Sorrento,  a  spot  so  charming  as  to  have  been  con- 
sidered the  habitation  of  the  Sirens  ;  and  here,  in  the  midst  of  liis 
orange-trees,  his  verses,  and  the  breezes  of  an  aromatic  coast,  he 
had  three  children,  the  eldest  of  whom  was  a  daughter  named 
Cornelia,  and  the  youngest  the  autliorof  the  Jerusalem  Delivered . 
The  other  child  died  young.  The  house  distinguished  by  tlie 
poet's  birth  was  restored  from  a  dilapidated  condition  by  order  of 
Joseph  Bonaparte  when  King  of  Naples,  and  is  now  an  hotel. 

Torquato  Tasso  was  born  March  the  11th,  1544,  nine  years 
after  the  death  of  Ariosto,  who  was  intimate  with  his  father.  He 
was  very  devoutly  brought  up ;  and  grew  so  tall,  and  became  so 
premature  a  scholar,  that  at  nine,  he  tells  us,  he  miglit  have  been 
taken  for  a  boy  of  twelve.  At  eleven,  in  consequence  of  the 
misfortunes  of  his  father,  who  had  been  exiled  with  the  Prince  of 
Salerno,  he  was  forced  to  part  from  his  mother,  who  remained  at 
home  to  look  after  a  dowry  which  she  never  received.  Her 
brothers  deprived  her  of  it  ]  and  in  two  years'  time  she  died, 
Bernardo  thought  by  poison.  Twenty-four  years  afterwards  her 
illustrious  son,  in  the  midst  of  his  own  misfortunes,  remembered 
with  sighs  the  tears  with  which  the  kisses  of  his  poor  mother 
were  bathed  when  she  was  forced  to  let  him  go.* 

*  In  the  beautiful  fragment  beginning,  O  del  grancV  Apennino : 

"  Me  dal  sen  della  madre  empia  fortuna 
Pargoletto  divelse.     Ah  !  di  que'  baci, 
Ch'  clla  bagnO  di  lagrime  dolcnti, 
Con  sospir  mi  rimembra,  e  degli  ardenti 
Prcghi,  che  sen  portar  1'  aure  fugaci, 
Ch'  io  giunger  non  dovea  piii  volto  a  volto 
Fra  quelle  braccia  accolto 
Con  nodi  cosl  stretti  e  si  tcnaci. 
Lasso !  e  seguii  con  mal  sicure  piante, 
Q.ual  Ascanio,  o  Camilla,  il  padre  errante." 

Me  from  my  mother's  bosom  my  hard  lot 
Took  when  a  child.     Ahis  !  though  all  these  years 
I  have  been  used  to  sorrow, 
I  sigh  to  think  upon  the  floods  of  tears 
Which  bathed  her  kisses  on  that  doleful  morrow : 
I  sigh  to  think  of  all  the  prayers  and  cries 
She  wasted,  straining  me  with  lifted  eyes; 

3* 


412  TAS  SO. 


The  little  Torquato  following,  as  he  says,  like  another  Ascanius, 
the  footsteps  of  his  wandering  father,  joined  Bernardo  in  Rome. 
After  two  years'  study  in  that  city,  partly  under  an  old  priest 
who  lived  with  them,  the  vicissitudes  of  the  father's  lot  took  away 
the  son  first  to  Bergamo,  among  his  relations,  and  then  to  Pesaro, 
in  the  duchy  of  Urbino,  where  his  education  was  associated  for 
nearly  two  years  with  that  of  the  young  prince,  afterwards  Duke 
Francesco  Maria  the  Second  (della  Rovere),  who  retained  a  re- 
gard for  him  through  life.  In  1559  the  boy  joined  his  father  in 
Venice,  where  the  latter  had  been  appointed  secretary  to  the 
Academy  5  but  next  year  he  was  withdrawn  from  these  pleasing  va- 
rieties of  scene  by  the  parental  delusion  so  common  in  the  history 
of  men  of  letters — the  study  of  the  law  ;  which  Bernardo  intended 
him  to  pursue  henceforth  in  the  city  of  Padua.  He  accordingly 
arrived  in  Padua  at  the  age  of  sixteen  and  a  half,  and  fulfilled  his 
legal  destiny  by  writing  the  poem  of  Rinaldo,  which  was  publish- 
ed in  the  course  of  less  than  two  years  at  Venice.  The  goodna- 
tured  and  poetic  father,  convinced  by  this  specimen  of  jurispru- 
dence how  useless  it  was  to  thwart  the  hereditary  passion,  per- 
mitted him  to  devote  himself  wholly  to  literature,  which  he  there- 
fore went  to  study  in  the  university  of  Bologna  ;  and  there,  at  the 
early  age  of  nineteen,  he  began  his  Jerusalem  Delivered  ;  that  is 
to  say,  he  planned  it,  and  wrote  three  cantos,  several  of  the  stan- 
zas of  which  he  retained  when  the  poem  was  matured.  He  quit- 
ted Bologna,  however,  in  a  fit  of  indignation  at  being  accused  of 
the  authorship  of  a  satire  ;  and  after  visiting  some  friends  at  Cas- 
telvetro  and  Correggio,  returned  to  Padua  on  the  invitation  of  his 
friend  Scipio  Gonzaga,  afterwards  cardinal,  who  wished  him  to 
become  a  member  of  an  academy  he  had  instituted,  called  the 
Eterei  (Ethe reals).  Here  he  studied  his  favourite  philosopher, 
Plato,  and  composed  three  Discourses  on  Heroic  Poetry,  dedica- 
ted to  his  friend.     He  now  paid  a  visit  to  his  father  in  Mantua, 

For  never  more  on  one  another's  face 

Was  it  our  lot  to  gaze  and  to  embrace ! 

Her  little  stumbling  boy, 

Like  to  the  child  of  Troy, 

Or  hke  to  one  doomed  to  no  haven  rather. 

Followed  the  footsteps  of  his  wandering  father. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  113 

whore  tlie  unsettled  man  had  become  secretary  to  the  duke  ;  and 
here,  it  is  said,  he  fell  in  love  with  a  young  lady  of  a  dislint^uish- 
ed  family,  whose  name  was  Laura  Peperara  ;  hut  this  did  not 
hinder  him  from  returning  to  his  Paduan  studios,  in  whicii  he 
spent  nearly  the  whole  of  the  following  year.  He  was  tiien  in- 
formed that  the  Cardinal  of  Este,  to  whom  he  had  dedicated  his 
Rf/ia/do,  and  with  whom  interest  had  been  made  for  the  i)urposc, 
had  appointed  him  one  of  his  attendants,  and  that  he  was  expected 
at  Ferrara  by  the  1st  of  December.  Returning  to  Mantua,  in 
order  to  prepare  for  this  appointment  with  his  father,  he  was  seiz- 
ed with  a  dangerous  illness,  which  detained  him  there  nearly  a 
twelvemonth  longer.  On  his  recovery  he  hastened  to  Ferrara, 
and  arrived  in  that  city  on  the  last  day  of  October,  1565,  the  first 
of  many  years  of  glory  and  misery. 

The  cardinal  of  Este  was  the  brother  of  the  reigning  Duke  of 
Ferrara,  Alfonso  the  Second,  grandson  of  the  Alfonso  of  Ariosto. 
It  is  curious  to  see  the  two  most  celebrated  romantic  poets  of  Italy 
thrown  into  unfortunate  connexion  with  two  princes  of  the  same 
house  and  the  same  respective  ranks.  Tasso's  cardinal,  however, 
though  the  poet  lost  his  favour,  and  though  very  little  is  known 
about  him,  left  no  such  bad  reputation  behind  him  as  Ippolito.  It 
was  in  the  service  of  the  duke  that  the  poet  experienced  his  suf- 
ferings. 

This  prince,  who  was  haughty,  ostentatious,  and  quarrelsome, 
was,  at  the  time  of  the  stranger's  arrival,  rehearsing  the  shows 
and  tournaments  intended  to  welcome  his  bride,  the  sister  of  the 
Emperor  Maximilian  the  Second.  She  was  his  second  wife. 
The  first  was  a  daughter  of  the  rival  house  of  Tuscany,  which  he 
detested  ;  and  the  marriage  had  not  been  happy.  The  new  con- 
sort arrived  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  entering  the  city  in  great 
pomp  ;  and  for  a  time  all  went  hapi)ily  with  the  young  poet.  Me 
was  in  a  state  of  ecstasy  with  the  beauty  and  grandeur  he  beheld 
around  him — obtained  the  flivourable  notice  of  the  duke's  two  sis- 
ters and  the  duke  himself — went  on  with  his  Jerusalem  Delivered, 
which,  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  Ariosto's  memory,  he  was  resolv- 
ed  to  load  with  praises  of  the  house  of  Este  ;  and  in  this  tumult  of 
pride  and  expectation,  he  beheld  the  duke,  like  one  of  the  heroes 
of  his  poem,  set  out  to  assist  the  emperor  against  the  Turks  at  the 


414  TASSO, 


head  of  three  hundred  gentlemen,  armed  at  all  points,  and  mantled 
in  various-coloured  velvets  embroidered  with  gold. 

To  complete  the  young  poet's  happiness,  or  commence  his  dis- 
appointments, he  fell  in  love,  notwithstanding  the  goddess  he  had 
left  in  Mantua,  with  the  beautiful  Luerezia  Bendidio,  who  does 
not  seem,  however,  to  have  loved  in  return ;  for  she  became  the 
wife  of  a  Macchiavelli.  Among  his  rivals  was  Guarini,  who 
afterwards  emulated  him  in  pastoral  poetry,  and  who  accused  him 
on  this  occasion  of  courting  two  ladies  at  once. 

Guarini's  accusation  has  been  supposed  to  refer  to  the  duke's 
sister  Leonora,  whose  name  has  become  so  romantically  mixed  up 
with  the  poet's  biography ;  but  the  latest  inquiries  render  it  prob- 
able that  the  allusion  was  to  Laura  Peperara.*  The  young  poet, 
however,  who  had  not  escaped  the  influence  of  the  free  manners 
of  Italy,  and  whose  senses  and  vanity  may  hitherto  have  been 
more  interested  than  his  heart,  rhymed  and  flattered  on  all  sides 
of  him,  not  of  course  omitting  the  charms  of  princesses.  In 
order  to  win  the  admiration  of  the  ladies  in  a  body,  he  sustained 
for  three  days,  in  public,  after  the  fashion  of  the  times.  Fifty  Am,' 
oroiis  Conclusions ;  that  is  to  say,  affirmations  on  the  subject  of 
love  ;  doubtless  to  the  equal  delight  of  his  fair  auditors  and  him- 
self, and  the  creation  of  a  good  deal  of  jealousy  and  ill-will  on 
the  part  of  such  persons  of  his  own  sex  as  had  not  wit  or  spirits 
enough  for  the  display  of  so  much  logic  and  love-making. 

In  1569,  the  death  of  his  father,  who  had  been  made  governor 
of  Ostiglia  by  the  Duke  of  Mantua,  cost  the  loving  son  a  fit  of 
illness  ;  but  the  continuation  of  his  Jerusalem,  an  Oration  spoken 
at  the  opening  of  the  Ferrarese  academy,  the  marriage  of  Leo- 
nora's sister  Luerezia  with  the  Prince  of  Urbino,  and  the  society 
of  Leonora  herself,  who  led  the  retired  life  of  a  person  in  delicate 
health,  and  was  fond  of  the  company  of  men  of  letters,  helped  to 
divert  him  from  melancholy  recollections ;  and  a  journey  to 
France,  at  the  close  of  the  year  following,  took  him  into  scenes 
that  were  not  only  totally  new,  but  otherwise  highly  interesting 
to  the  singer  of  Godfrey  of  Boulogne.  The  occasion  of  it  was  a 
visit  of  the  cardinal,  his  master,  to  the  court  of  his  relative 

*  Rosini,  Saggw  sugli  Amori  di  Torquato  Tasso,  &c.,  in  the  Professor's  edi- 
tion of  his  works7  vol.  xxxiii. 


HIS   LIFE   AJNfD   GENIUS.  4i5 


Charles  the  Ninth.  It  is  supposed  that  his  Hminonce  went  to 
confer  witli  the  king  on  matters  relative  to  the  disputes  which  not 
long  afterwards  occasioned  the  detestable  massacre  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew. 

/     Before  his  departure,  Tasso  put  into  the  hands  of  one  of  his 
/  friends  a  document,  which,  as  it  is  very  curious,  and  serves  to 
illustrate  perhaps  more  than  one  cause  of  his  misfortunes,  is  here 
given  entire. 

Memorial  left  hy  Tasso  on  his  departure  to  France. 

"  Since  life  is  frail,  and  it  may  please  Almighty  God  to  dispose 
of  me  otherwise  in  this  my  journey  to  France,  it  is  requested  of 
Signor  Ercole  Rondinelli  that  he  will,  in  that  case,  undertake  the 
manacjement  of  the  following  concerns  : 

"  In  the  first  place,  with  regard  to  my  compositions,  it  is  my* 
wish  that  all  my  love-sonnets  and  madrigals  should  be  collected 
and  published  ;  but  with  regard  to  those,  whether  amatory  or 
otherwise,  tvhich  I  have  written  for  any  friend,  my  request  is,  that 
they  should  be  buried  with  myself  save  only  the  one  commencing 
"  Or  che  V  aura  mia  dolce  altrove  spira."  I  wish  the  publication 
of  the  Oration  spoken  in  Ferrara  at  the  opening  of  the  academy, 
of  the  four  books  on  Heroic  Poetry,  of  the  six  last  cantos  of  the 
Godfrey  (the  Jerusalem),  and  of  those  stanzas  of  the  two  first 
which  shall  seem  least  imperfect.  All  these  compositions,  how- 
ever, are  to  be  submitted  to  the  review  and  consideration  of 
Signor  Scipio  Gonzaga,  of  Signor  Domenico  Veniero,  and  of 
Signor  Battista  Guarini,  who,  I  persuade  myself,  will  not  refuse 
this  trouble,  when  they  consider  the  zealous  friendship  I  have 
entertained  for  themselves. 

"  Let  them  be  informed,  too,  that  it  was  my  intention  that  they 
should  cut  and  hew  without  mercy  whatever  should  appear  to 
them  defective  or  superfluous.  With  regard  to  additions  or 
changes,  I  should  wish  them  to  proceed  more  cautiously,  since, 
after  all,  the  poem  would  remain  imperfect.  As  to  my  other 
compositions,  should  there  be  any  which,  to  the  aforesaid  Signor 
Rondinelli  and  the  other  gentlemen,  might  seem  not  unworthy  of 
publication,  let  them  be  disposed  of  according  to  their  pleasure. 


416  TASSO. 


"  In  respect  to  my  property,  I  wish  that  such  part  of  it  as  1 

have  pledged  to  Ahram  for  twenty-five  lire,    and   seven 

pieces  of  arras,  which  are  likewise  in  pledge  to  Signor  Ascanio 
for  thirteen  sciidi,  together  with  whatever  I  have  in  this  house, 
should  be  sold,  and  that  the  overplus  of  the  proceeds  should  go  to 
defray  the  expense  of  the  following  epitaph  to  be  inscribed  on  a 
monument  to  my  father,  whose  body  is  in  St.  Polo.  And  should 
any  impediment  take  place  in  these  matters,  I  entreat  Signor  Er- 
cole  to  have  recourse  to  the  favour  of  the  most  excellent  Madame 
Leonora,  whose  liherality  I  confide  in,  for  my  sake. 

"  I,  Torquato  Tasso,  have  written  this,  Ferrara,  1570." 

I  shall  have  occasion  to  recur  to  this  document  by  and  by.  I  will 
merely  observe,  for  the  present,  that  the  marks  in  it,  both  of  impru- 
dence in  money-matters  and  confidence  in  the  goodwill  of  a  prin- 
cess, are  very  striking.  "  Abram"  and  "  Signor  Ascanio"  were 
both  Jews.  The  pieces  of  arras  belonged  to  his  father ;  and 
probably  this  was  an  additional  reason  why  the  affectionate  son 
wished  the  proceeds  to  defray  the  expense  of  the  epitaph.  The 
epitaph  recorded  his  father's  poetry,  state-services,  and  vicissitudes 
of  fortune.   ^ 

Tasso  was  introduced  to  the  French  king  as  the  poet  of  a  French 
hero  and  of  a  Catholic  victory  ;  and  his  reception  was  so  favourable 
(particularly  as  the  wretched  Charles,  the  victim  of  his  mother's 
bigotry,  had  himself  no  mean  poetic  feeling),  that,  with  a  rash  mix- 
ture of  simplicity  and  self-reliance  (respect  makes  me  unwilling  to 
call  it  self-importance),  the  poet  expressed  an  impolitic  amount  of 
astonishment  at  the  favour  shown  at  court  to  the  Hufi-onots — little 
suspecting  the  horrible  design  it  covered.  He  shortly  afterwards 
broke  with  his  master  the  cardinal  ',  and  it  is  supposed  that  this 
unseasonable  escape  of  zeal  was  the  cause.  He  himself  appears 
to  have  thought  so.*  Perhaps  the  cardinal  only  wanted  to  get  the 
imprudent  poet  back  to  Italy  ;  for,  on  Tasso's  return  to  Ferrara, 
he  was  not  only  received  into  the  service  of  the  duke  with  a 
salary  of  some  fifteen  golden  scudi  a-month,  but  told  that  he 
was  exempted   from  any  particular  duty,  and  might  attend  in 

*  Lettere  Inedite,  p.  33,  in  the  Opere,  vol.  xvii. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  117 

peace  to  his  studies.  Balzac  alVirms,  that  while  Tasso  was  at 
the  court  of  France,  he  was  so  poor  as  to  bog  a  crown  from  a 
friend  ;  and  that,  when  he  left  it,  he  had  the  same  coat  on  his 
back  that  he  came  in.*  The  assertions  of  a  professed  wit  and 
hypcrbolist  are  not  to  be  taken  for  granted  ;  yet  it  is  difhcult  to 
say  to  what  shifts  improvidence  may  not  be  reduced. 

The  singer  of  the  house  of  Este  would  now,  it  might  have  been 
supposed,  be  happy.  He  had  leisure  ;  he  had  money  ;  he  had 
the  worldly  honours  that  he  was  fond  of;  he  occupied  himself  in 
perfecting  the  Jerusalem ;  and  he  wrote  his  beautiful  pastoral, 
the  A?nhita,  which  was  performed  before  the  duke  and  his  court 
to  the  delight  of  the  brilliant  assembly.  The  duke's  sister  Lu- 
crezia,  princess  of  Urbino,  who  was  a  special  friend  of  the  poet, 
sent  for  him  to  read  it  to  her  at  Pesaro  ;  and  in  tlie  course  of  the 
ensuing  carnival  it  was  performed  with  similar  applause  at  the 
court  of  her  father-in-law.  The  poet  had  been  as  much  enchanted 
by  the  spectacle  which  the  audience  at  Ferrara  presented  to  his 
eves,  as  the  audience  with  the  loves  and  graces  with  which  he 
enriched  their  stage.  The  shepherd  Thyrsis,  by  whom  he  meant 
himself,  reflected  it  back  upon  them  in  a  passage  of  the  perform- 
ance. It  is  worth  while  dwelling  on  this  passage  a  little,  because 
it  exhibits  a  brief  interval  of  happiness  in  the  author's  life,  and 
also  shews  us  what  he  had  already  begun  to  think  of  courts  at 
the  moment  he  was  praising  them.  But  he  ingeniously  contrives 
to  put  the  praise  in  his  own  mouth,  and  the  blame  in  another's. 
The  shepherd's  friend,  Mopsus  (by  whom  Tasso  is  thought  to 
have  meant  Speroni),  had  warned  him  against  going  to  court : 

"  Per6,  figlio, 
Va  su  r  awiso,"  &c. 

"  Therefore,  my  son,  take  my  advice.     Avoid 
The  places  wliere  thou  seest  much  drapery, 
Colours,  and  i^old,  and  plumes,  and  heraldries, 
And  such  new-fangleinents.     But,  above  all. 
Take  care  how  evil  chance  or  youthful  wandering 
Bring  thee  upon  the  house  of  Idle  Babble." 
"  Whnt  place  is  thatT'  said  I ;  and  he  resumed  ; — 
"  Enchantresses  dwell  there,  who  make  one  see 

*  Entretiens,  1663,  p.  169,  quoted  by  Serassi,  pp.  175,  182. 


418 


TASSO. 


Things  as  they  are  not,  ay  and  hear  them  too. 

That  which  shall  seem  pure  diamond  and  fine  gold 

Is  glass  and  brass ;  and  coffers  that  look  silver, 

Heavy  with  wealth,  are  baskets  full  of  bladders.* 

The  very  walls  there  are  so  strangely  made,  ^v, 

They  answer  those  who  talk ;  and  not  in  syllables, 

Or  bits  of  words,  like  echo  in  our  woods. 

But  go  the  whole  talk  over,  word  for  word. 

With  something  else  besides,  that  no  one  said.t 

The  tressels,  tables,  bedsteads,  curtains,  lockers. 

Chairs,  and  whatever  furniture  there  is 

In  room  or  bedroom,  all  have  tongues  and  speech, 

And  are  for  ever  tattling.     Idle  Babble 

Is  always  going  about,  playing  the  child  ; 

And  should  a  dumb  man  enter  in  that  place, 

The  dumb  would  babble  in  his  own  despite. 

And  yet  tliis  evil  is  the  least  of  all 

That  might  assail  thee.     Thou  might' st  be  arrested 

In  fearful  transformation  to  a  willow, 

A  beast,  fire,  water, — fire  for  ever  sighing, 

Water  for  ever  weeping." — Here  he  ceased : 

And  I,  with  all  this  fine  foreknowledge,  went 

To  the  great  city ;  and,  by  Heaven's  kind  will, 

Came  where  they  live  so  happily.     The  first  sound 

I  heard  was  a  delightful  harmony, 

Which  issued  forth,  of  voices  loud  and  sweet ; — 

Sirens,  and  swans,  and  nymphs,  a  heavenly  noise 

Of  heavenly  things  ; — which  gave  me  such  deUght, 

That,  all  admiring,  and  amazed,  and  joyed, 

I  stopped  awhile  quite  motionless.     There  stood 

Within  the  entrance,  as  if  keeping  guard 

Of  those  fine  things,  one  of  a  high-souled  aspect, 

Stalwart  withal,  of  whom  I  was  in  doubt 

Whether  to  think  him  better  knight  or  leader.t 

He,  with  a  look  at  once  benign  and  grave, 

In  royal  guise,  invited  me  within ; 

He,  great  and  in  esteem ;  me,  lorn  and  lowly. 

Oh,  the  sensations  and  the  sights  which  then 

Shower'd  on  me.     Goddesses  I  saw,  and  nymphs 

*  Suggested  by  Ariosto's  furniture  in  the  Moon. 

t  This  was  a  trick  which  he  afterwards  thought  he  had  reason  to  complain 
of  in  a  style  very  diiferent  from  pleasantry. 

t  Alfonso.  The  word  for  "  leader"  in  the  original,  duce,  made  the  allusion 
more  obvious.  The  epithet  "royal,"  in  the  next  sentence,  conveyed  a  welcome 
intimation  to  the  ducal  ear,  the  house  of  Este  being  very  proud  of  its  connexion 
■with  the  sovereigns  of  Europe,  and  very  desirous  of  becoming  royal  itself. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  419 


Graceful  and  beautiful,  and  harpers  fine 

As  Linus  or  as  Orpheus;  and  more  deities, 

All  without  veil  or  cloud,  briirht  as  the  vir<nn 

Aurora,  when  she  glads  immortal  eyes. 

And  sows  her  beams  and  dew-drops,  silver  and  gold. 

Ill  the  summer  of  1574,  the  Duke  of  Ferrara  went  to  Venice 
to  pay  his  respects  to  the  successor  of  Charles  tlie  Nintli,  Henry 
the  Third,  then  on  his  way  to  France  from  his  kingdom  of  Poland. 
Tasso  went  with  the  Duke,  and  is  understood  to  have  taken  the 
opportunity  of  looking  for  a  printer  of  his  Jerusalem,  which  was 
now  almost  finished.  Writers  were  anxious  to  publish  in  tiiat 
crafty  city,  because  its  government  would  give  no  security  of 
profit  to  books  printed  elsewhere.  Alfonso,  who  was  in  mourn- 
ing for  Henry's  brother,  and  to  whom  mourning  itself  only  sug- 
gested a  new  occasion  of  pomp  and  vanity,  took  with  him  to  this 
interview  five  hundred  Ferrarese  gentlemen,  all  dressed  in  long 
black  cloaks  ;  who  walking  about  Venice  (says  a  reporter)  "  by 
twos  and  threes,"  wonderfully  impressed  the  inhabitants  with 
their  "  gravity  and  magnificence."*  The  mourners  feasted, 
however  ;  and  Tasso  had  a  quartan  fever,  which  delayed  the 
completion  "  of  the  Jerusalem  till  next  year.  This  was  at  length 
effected ;  and  now  once  more,  it  might  have  been  thought,  that 
the  writer  would  have  reposed  on  his  laurels. 

But  Tasso  had  already  begun  to  experience  the  uneasiness  at- 
tending superiority  ;  and,  unfortunately,  the  strength  of  his  mind 
was  not  equal  to  that  of  his  genius.  He  was  of  an  ultra-sensitive 
temperament,  and  subject  to  depressing  fits  of  sickness.  He  could 
not  calmly  bear  envy.  Sarcasm  exasperated,  and  hostile  criti- 
cism afflicted  him.  The  seeds  of  a  suspicious  temper  were  nour- 
ished by  prosperity  itself.  The  author  of  the  Armida  and  the 
Jerusalem  began  to  think  the  attentions  he  received  unequal  to  his 
merits  ;  while  with  a  sort  of  hysterical  mixture  of  demand  for 
applause,  and  provocation  of  censure,  he  not  only  condescended 
to  read  his  poems  in  manuscript  wherever  he  went,  but,  in  order 
to  secure  the  goodwill  of  the  papal  licenser,  he  transmitted  it  for 
revisal  to  Rome,  where  it  was  mercilessly  criticised  for  the  space 
of  two  years  by  the  bigots  and  hypocrites  of  a  court,  which  Lu- 

*  Serassi,  vol.  i.  p.  210. 


420  TASSO. 


ther  had  rendered  a  very  different  one   from   that  in  the  time  of 
Ariosto. 

This  new  source  of  chagrin  exasperated  the  eomplexional  rest- 
lessness which  now  made  our  author  think  that  he  should  be  more 
easy  anywhere  than  in  Ferrara  ;  perhaps  more  able  to  communi- 
cate with  and  convince  his  critics  ;  and,  unfortunately,  he  per- 
mitted himself  to  descend  to  a  weakness  the  most  fatal  of  all  oth- 
ers to  a  mind  naturally  exalted  and  ingenuous.  Perhaps  it  was 
one  of  the  main  causes  of  all  which  he  suffered.  Indeed,  he  him- 
self attributed  his  misfortunes  to  irresolution.  What  I  mean  in 
the  present  instance  was,  that  he  did  not  disdain  to  adopt  un- 
derhand measures.  He  shewed  a  face  of  satisfaction  with  Alfonso, 
at  the  moment  that  he  was  taking  steps  to  exchange  his  court  for 
another.  He  wrote  for  that  purpose  to  his  friend  Scipio  Gonzaga, 
now  a  prelate  at  the  court  of  Rome,  earnestly  begging  him,  at  the 
same  time,  not  to  commit  him  in  their  correspondence  ;  and 
Scipio,  who  was  one  of  his  kindest  and  most  indulgent  friends,  and 
who  doubtless  saw  that  the  Duke  of  Ferrara  and  his  poet  were  not 
of  dispositions  to  accord,  did  all  he  could  to  procure  him  an  ap- 
pointment with  one  of  the  family  of  the  Medici. 

Most  unhappily  for  this  speculation  (and  perhaps  even  the 
good-natured  Gonzaga  took  a  little  more  pleasure  in  it  on  that 
account),  Alfonso  inherited  all  the  detestation  of  his  house  for  that 
lucky  race  ;  and  it  is  remarkable^  that  the  same  jealousies  which 
hindered  Ariosto's  advancement  with  the  Medici  were  still  more 
fatal  to  the  hopes  of  Tasso  ;  for  they  served  to  plunge  him  into  the 
deepest  adversity.  In  vain  he  had  warnings  given  him,  both 
friendly  and  hostile.  The  princess,  now  Duchess  of  Urbino,  who 
was  his  particular  friend,  strongly  cautioned  him  against  the 
temptation  of  going  away.  She  said  he  was  watched.  He  him- 
self thought  his  letters  were  opened  ;  and  probably  they  were. 
They  certainly  were  at  a  subsequent  period.  Tasso,  however, 
persisted,  and  went  to  Rome.  Scipio  Gonzaga  introduced  him  to 
Cardinal  Ferdinand  de'  Medici,  afterwards  Grand  Duke  of  Tus- 
cany ;  and  Ferdinand  made  him  offers  of  protection  so  handsome, 
that  they  excited  his  suspicion.  The  self  tormenting  poet  thought 
they  savoured  more  of  hatred  to  the  Este  family,  than  honour  to 


HIS   LIFE   AXD   GENIUS.  421 


himself.*  He  did  not  accept  thein.  He  did  nothinr^  nt  Rome  but 
make  friends,  in  order  to  perplex  tliem  ;  listen  to  his  critics,  in 
order  to  worry  himself ;  and  perform  acts  of  piety  in  the  churches, 
by  way  of  shewing  that  the  love-scenes  in  the  Jerusalem  were  inno- 
cent. For  tiie  bigots  had  begun  to  find  something  very  question- 
able in  mixing  up  so  much  love  witli  war.  Tiie  bloodshed  tliey 
had  no  objection  to.  The  love  bearded  their  prejudices,  and  ex- 
cited their  envy. 

Tasso  returned  to  Ferrara,  and  endeavoured  to  solace  himself 
with  eulogising  two  fair  strangers  who  had  arrived  at  Alfonso's 
court, — Eleonora  Sanvitale,  who  had  been  newly  married  to  the 
Count  of  Scandiano  (a  Tiene,  not  a  Boiardo,  whose  line  was  ex- 
tinct), and  Barbara  Sanseverino,  Countess  of  Sala,  her  mother-in- 
law.  The  mother-in-law,  who  was  a  Juno-lil^e  beauty,  wore  her 
hair  in  the  form  of  a  crown.  The  still  more  beautiful  daughter- 
in-law  had  an  under  lip  such  as  Anacreon  or  Sir  John  Suckling 
would  have  admired, — pouting  and  provoking, — -xpoKalovficvov  <^>i\nna. 
Tasso  wrote  verses  on  them  both,  but  particularly  to  the  lip  ;  and 
this  Countess  of  Scandiano  is  the  second,  out  of  the  three  Leono- 
ras, with  whom  Tasso  was  said  by  his  friend  Manso  to  have  been 
in  love.  The  third,  it  is  now  ascertained,  never  existed  ;  and  his 
love-making  to  the  new  or  second  Leonora,  goes  to  shew  how 
little  of  real  passion  there  was  in  the  praises  of  the  first  (the  Prin- 
cess Leonora),  or  probably  of  any  lady  at  court.  He  even  pro- 
fessed love,  as  a  forlorn  hope,  to  the  countess's  waiting-maid. 
Yet  these  gallantries  of  sonnets  are  exalted  into  bewilderments  of 
the  heart. 

His  restlessness  returning,  the  poet  now  condescended  to  craft 
a  second  time.  Expecting  to  meet  with  a  refusal,  and  so  to  be 
afforded  a  pretext  for  quitting  Ferrara,  he  applied  for  the  vacant 
office  of  historiographer.  It  was  granted  him  ;  and  he  then  dis- 
gusted the  Medici  by  pleading  an  unlooked-for  engagement, 
which  he  could  only  reconcile  to  his  applications  for  their  favour 
by  renouncing  his  claim  to  be  believed.  If  he  could  have  de- 
ceived others,  why  might  he  not  have  deceived  them  ? 

*  "  Alia  lor  magnaniiniti  6  convcnevole  il  mostrar,  ch'  amor  dcUe  virtti,  non 
odio  verso  altri,  gli  abbia  gii  mossi  ad  invitanui  con  invito  cosl  largo."  Opere, 
vol.  XV.  p.  94. 


42-3  TASSO. 

All  the  lurking  weakness  of  the  poet's  temperament  began  to 
display  itself  at  this  juncture.  His  perplexity  excited  him  to  a 
deo-ree  of  irritability  bordering  on  delirium ;  and  circumstances 
conspired  to  increase  it.  He  had  lent  an  acquaintance  the  key 
of  his  rooms  at  court,  for  the  purpose  (he  tells  us)  of  accommo- 
dating some  intrigue  ;  and  he  suspected  this  person  of  opening 
cabinets  containing  his  papers.  Remonstrating  with  him  one  day 
in  the  court  of  the  palace,  either  on  that  or  some  other  account, 
the  man  gave  him  the  lie.  He  received  in  return  a  blow  on  the 
face,  and  is  said  by  Tasso  to  have  brought  a  set  of  his  kinsmen 
to  assassinate  him,  all  of  whom  the  heroical  poet  immediately  put 
to  flight.  At  one  time  he  suspected  the  Duke  of  jealousy  respect- 
ing the  dedication  of  his  poem,  and  at  another,  of  a  wish  to  burn 
it.  He  suspected  his  servants.  He  became  suspicious  of  the 
truth  of  his  friend  Gonzaga.  He  doubted,  even,  whether  some 
praises  addressed  to  him  by  Orazio  Ariosto,  the  nephew  of  the 
great  poet,  which,  one  would  have  thought,  would  have  been  to 
him  a  consummation  of  bliss,  were  not  intended  to  mystify  and 
hurt  him.  At  length  he  fancied  that  his  persecutors  had  accused 
him  of  heresy  to  the  Inquisition  ;  and,  as  he  had  gone  through 
the  metaphysical  doubts,  common  with  most  men  of  reflection 
respecting  points  of  faith  and  the  mysteries  of  creation,  he  feared 
that  some  indiscreet  words  had  escaped  him,  giving  colour  to  the 
charge.  He  thus  beheld  enemies  all  around  him.  He  dreaded 
stabbing  and  poison ;  and  one  day,  in  some  paroxysm  of  rage  or 
horror,  how  occasioned  it  is  not  known,  ran  with  a  knife  or  dag- 
ger at  one  of  the  servants  of  the  Duchess  of  Urbino  in  her  own 
chamber.  * 

Alfonso,  upon  this,  apparently  in  the  mildest  and  most  reason- 
able manner,  directed  that  he  should  be  confined  to  his  apartments, 
and  put  into  the  hands  of  the  physician.  These  unfortunate 
events  took  place  in  the  summer  of  1577,  and  in  the  poet's  thirty- 
third  year. 

Tasso  shewed  so  much  affliction  at  this  treatment,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  bore  it  so  patiently,  that  the  duke  took  him  to  his 
beautiful  country-seat  of  Belriguardo ;  where,  in  one  of  his  ac- 
counts of  the  matter,  the  poet  says  that  he  treated  him  as  a 
brother ;  but  in  another,  he  accuses  him  of  having  taken  pains  to 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  [vi 


or 


make  him  criminate  himself,  and  confess  certain  matters,  real 
supposed,  the  nature  of  which  is  a  puzzle  witli  posterity.  Some 
are  of  opinion  (and  this  is  the  prcvailinnr  one),  that  he  was  found 
guilty  of  being  in  love  with  the  Princess  Leonora,  perhaps  of 
being  loved  by  herself.  Others  think  the  love  out  of  the  question, 
and  that  the  duke  was  concerned  at  nothing  but  his  endeavourinn- 
to  transfer  his  services  and  his  poetic  reputation  into  the  hands  of 
the  ]\Iedici.  Others  see  in  the  duke's  conduct  nothing  hut  that 
of  a  good  master  interesting  himself  in  the  welfare  of  an  alllicted 
servant. 

It  is  certain  that  Alfonso  did  all  he  could  to  prevent  the  surrep- 
titious  printing  of  the  Jerusalem  Delivered  in  various  towns  of 
Italy,  the  dread  of  which  had  much  afllicted  the  poet ;  and  he 
also  endeavoured,  though  in  vain,  to  ease  his  mind  on  the  subject 
of  the  Inquisition  ;  for  these  facts  are  attested  by  state-papers  and 
other  documents,  not  dependent  either  on  the  testimony  of  third 
persons  or  the  partial  representations  of  the  sufferer.  But  Tasso 
felt  so  uneasy  at  Belriguardo,  that  he  requested  leave  to  retire  a 
while  into  a  convent.  He  remained  there  several  days,  apparent- 
ly so  much  to  his  satisfaction,  that  he  wrote  to  the  duke  to  say 
that  it  was  his  intention  to  become  a  friar  ;  and  yet  he  had  no 
sooner  got  into  the  place,  than  he  addressed  a  letter  to  the  Inquisi- 
tion at  Rome,  beseeching  it  to  desire  permission  for  him  to  come 
to  that  city,  in  order  to  clear  himself  from  the  charges  of  his 
enemies.  He  also  wrote  to  two  other  friends,  requesting  them  to 
further  his  petition  ;  and  adding  that  the  duke  was  enraged  with 
him  in  consequence  of  the  anger  of  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany, 
who,  it  is  supposed,  had  accused  Tasso  of  having  revealed  to 
Alfonso  some  indecent  epithet  which  his  highness  had  applied  to 
him.*  These  letters  were  undoubtedly  intercepted,  for  they  were 
found  among  the  secret  archives  of  Modena,  the  only  principality 

*  The  application  is  the  conjecture  of  Black,  vol.  i.  p.  317.  Serassi  sup- 
pressed the  whole  passage.  The  indecent  word  would  have  been  known  but 
for  the  delicacy  or  courtliness  of  Muratori,  who  substituted  an  tl-cctcra  in  its 
place,  observing,  that  he  had  "covered"  with  it  "an  indecent  word  not  fit  to  bo 
printed"  ("sotto  quell'  el-cetera  ho  io  cop<'rta  un'  indecente  parola,  che  non  era 
lecito  di  lasciar  correre  alle  stampe."  Opere  del  Tasso,  vol.  xvi.  p.  114.)  By 
"  covered"  he  seems  to  have  meant  blotted  out;  for  in  the  latest  edition  of  Taaso 
the  et-cetera  is  retained. 


^H 


TASSO. 


ultimately  remaining  in  the  Este  family ;  so  that,  agreeably  to 
the  saying  of  listeners  hearing  no  good  of  themselves,  if  Alfonso 
did  not  know  the  epithet  before,  he  learnt  it  then.  The  reader 
may  conceive  his  feelings.  Tasso,  too,  at  the  same  time,  was 
plaguing  him  with  letters  to  similar  purpose  ;  and  it  is  observable, 
that  while  in  those  which  he  sent  to  Rome  he  speaks  of  Cosmo  de' 
Medici  as  "  Grand  Duke,"  he  takes  care  in  the  others  to  call  him 
simply  the  "  Duke  of  Florence."  Alfonso  had  been  exasperated 
to  the  last  degree  at  Cosmo's  having  had  the  epithet  "  Grand" 
added  by  the  Pope  to  his  ducal  title ;  and  the  reader  may  imagine 
the  little  allowance  that  would  be  made  by  a  haughty  and  angry 
prince  for  the  rebellious  courtesy  thus  shewn  to  a  detested  rival. 
Tasso,  furthermore,  who  had  not  only  an  infantine  hatred  of  bitter 
"  physic,"  but  i^easonably  thought  the  fashion  of  the  age  for  giv- 
ing it  a  ridiculous  one,  begged  hard,  in  a  manner  which  it  is  hu- 
miliating to  witness,  that  he  might  not  be  drenched  with  medicine. 
The  duke  at  length,  forbade  his  writing  to  him  any  more ;  and 
Tasso,  whose  fears  of  every  kind  of  ill  usage  had  been  wound  up 
to  a  pitch  unbearable,  watched  an  opportunity  when  he  was  care- 
lessly guarded,  and  fled  at  once  from  the  convent  and  Ferrara. 

The  unhappy  poet  selected  the  loneliest  ways  he  could  find, 
and  directed  his  course  to  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  where  his  sis- 
ter lived.  He  was  afraid  of  pursuit ;  he  probably  had  little 
money  ;  and  considering  his  ill  health  and  his  dread  of  the  In- 
quisition, it  is  pitiable  to  think  what  he  may  have  endured  while 
picking  his  long  way  through  the  back  states  of  the  Church  and 
over  the  mountains  of  Abruzzo,  as  far  as  the  Gulf  of  Naples. 
For  better  security,  he  exchanged  clothes  with  a  shepherd  ;  and 
as  he  feared  even  his  sister  at  first,  from  doubting  whether  she 
still  loved  him,  his  interview  with  her  was  in  all  its  circumstan- 
ces painfully  dramatic.  Cornelia  Tasso,  now  a  widow,  with  two 
sons,  was  still  residing  at  Sorrento,  where  the  poet,  casting  his 
eyes  around  him  as  he  proceeded  towards  the  house,  must  have 
beheld  with  singular  feelings  of  wretchedness  the  lovely  spots  in 
which  he  had  been  a  happy  little  boy.  He  did  not  announce  him- 
self at  once.  He  brought  letters,  he  said,  from  the  lady's  brother ; 
and  it  is  affecting  to  think,  that  whether  his  sister  might  or  might 
not  have  retained  otherwise  any  personal  recollection  of  him  since 


HIS    LIFK   AND   GEMUS. 


that  time  (for  he  had  not  seen  her  in  the  interval),  his  dist^'uiso 
was  coiupleted  by  the  alterations  which  sorrow  had  made  in  his 
appearance.  For,  at  all  events,  she  did  not  know  hiiu.  She  saw 
in  him  nothing  but  a  haggard  stranger  who  was  accjuainted  with 
the  writer  of  the  letters,  and  to  whom  tiiey  referred  for  |)articu- 
lars  of  the  risk  which  her  brother  ran,  unless  she  could  atlbrd 
him  her  protection.  These  particulars  were  given  by  the  stran- 
ger with  all  the  pathos  of  the  real  man,  and  the  loving  sister  faint- 
ed  away.  On  her  recovery,  tiie  visitor  said  what  he  could  to  re- 
assure  her,  and  then  by  degrees  discovered  himself.  Cornelia 
welcomed  him  in  the  tenderest  manner.  She  did  all  tiiat  he  de- 
sired ;  and  gave  out  to  her  friends  that  the  gentleman  was  a 
cousin  from  Bergamo,  who  had  come  to  Naples  on  family  af- 
fairs. 

For  a  little  while  the  afTection  of  his  sister,  and  tl)e  beauty  and 
freshness  of  Sorrento,  rendered  the  mind  of  Tasso  more  easy  :  but 
his  restlessness  returned.  He  feared  he  had  mortally  olfended 
the  Duke  of  Ferrara  ;  and,  with  his  wonted  fluctuation  of  purpose, 
he  now  wished  to  be  restored  to  his  presence  for  the  very  reason 
he  had  run  away  from  it.  He  did  not  know  with  what  vengeance 
he  might  be  pursued.  He  wrote  to  the  duke  ;  but  received  no 
answer.  The  Duchess  of  Urbino  was  equally  silent.  Leonora 
alone  responded,  but  with  no  encouragement.  These  appearan- 
ces only  made  him  the  more  anxious  to  dare  or  to  propitiate  his 
doom  ;  and  he  accordingly  determined  to  put  himself  in  the  duke's 
hands.  His  sister  entreated  him  in  vain  to  alter  his  resolution.  He 
quitted  her  before  the  autumn  was  over  ;  and,  proceeding  to  Rome, 
went  directly  to  the  house  of  the  duke's  agent  there,  who,  in  concert 
with  theFerrarese  ambassador,  gave  his  master  advice  of  the  cir- 
cumstance. Gonzaga,  however,  and  another  good  friend,  Cardinal 
Albano,  doubted  whether  it  would  be  wise  in  the  poet  to  return 
to  Ferrara  under  any  circumstances.  They  counselled  him  to 
be  satisfied  with  being  pardoned  at  a  distance,  and  with  having 
his  papers  and  other  things  returned  to  him  ;  and  the  two  friends 
immediataly  wrote  to  the  duke  requesting  as  much.  The  duke 
apparently  acquiesced  in  all  that  was  desired  ;  but  he  said  that 
the  illness  of  his  sister,  the  Duchess  of  Urbino,  delayed  the  procu- 
ration of  the  papers,  which,  it  seems,  were  chiefly  in  her  hands. 


426  TASSO. 


The  upshot  was,  that  the  papers  did  not  come  ;  and  Tasso,  with  a 
mixture  of  rage  and  fear,  and  perhaps  for  more  reasons  than  he  has 
told,  became  uncontrollably  desirous  of  retracing  the  rest  of  his 
steps  to  Ferrara.  Love  may  have  been  among  these  reasons — 
probably  was ;  though  it  does  not  follow  that  the  passion  must  have 
been  for  a  princess.  The  poet  now,  therefore,  petitioned  to  that  ef- 
fect ;  and  Alfonso  wrote  again,  and  said  he  might  come,  but  only  on 
condition  of  his  again  undergoing  the  ducal  course  of  medicine  ; 
adding,  that  if  he  did  not,  he  was  to  be  finally  expelled  his  high- 


's 
ness's  territories. 


He  was  graciously  received — too  graciously,  it  would  seem,  for 
his  equanimity  ;  for  it  gave  him  such  a  flow  of  spirits,  that  the 
duke  appears  to  have  thought  it  necessary  to  repress  them.  The 
unhappy  poet,  at  this,  began  to  have  some  of  his  old  suspicions ; 
and  the  unaccountable  detention  of  his  papers  confirmed  them. 
He  made  an  effort  to  keep  the  suspicions  down,  but  it  was  by 
means,  unfortunately,  of  drowning  them  in  wine  and  jollity  ;  and 
this  gave  him  such  a  fit  of  sickness  as  had  nearly  been  his  death. 
He  recovered,  only  to  make  a  fresh  stir  about  his  papers,  and  a 
still  greater  one  about  his  poems  in  general,  which,  though  his  Je- 
rusalem was  yet  only  known  in  manuscript,  and  not  even  his  Aminta 
published,  he  believed  ought  to  occupy  the  attention  of  mankind. 
People  at  Ferrara,  therefore,  not  foreseeing  the  respect  that  pos- 
terity would  entertain  for  the  poet,  and  having  no  great  desire 
perhaps  to  encourage  a  man  who  claimed  to  be  a  rival  of  their 
countryman  Ariosto,  now  began  to  consider  their  Neapolitan  guest 
not  merely  an  ingenious  and  pitiable,  but  an  overweening  and 
tiresome  enthusiast.  The  court,  however,  still  seemed  to  be  in- 
terested in  its  panegyrist,  though  Tasso  feared  that  Alfonso  meant 
to  burn  his  Jerusalem.  Alfonso,  on  the  other  hand,  is  supposed 
to  have  feared  that  he  would  burn  it  himself,  and  the  ducal  praises 
with  it.  The  papers,  at  all  events,  apparently  including  the  only 
fair  copy  of  the  poem,  were  constantly  withheld  ;  and  Tasso,  in 
a  new  fit  of  despair,  again  quitted  Ferrara.  This  mystery  of  the 
papers  is  certainly  very  extraordinary. 

The  poet's  first  steps  were  to  Mantua,  where  he  met  with  no 
such  reception  as  encouraged  him  to  stay.  He  then  went  to  Ur- 
bino,  but  did  not  stop  long.     The  prince,  it  is  true,  was  very  gra- 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  427 


irithDO 


I 


cious  ;  and  bandages  for  a  cautery  were  applied  by  the  fair  hands 
of  his  highness's  sister  ;  but,  though  the  nurse  enchanted,  the 
surgery  frightened  him.  The  hapless  poet  found  himself  pursued 
wherever  he  went  by  the  tormenting  beneficence  of  medicine. 
He  escaped,  and  went  to  Turin.  He  had  no  passport ;  and  pre- 
sented, besides,  so  miserable  an  appearance,  that  the  people  at  the 
gates  roughly  refused  him  admittance.  He  was  well  received, 
however,  at  court ;  and  as  he  had  begun  to  acknowledge  that  he 
was  subject  to  humours  and  delusions,  and  wrote  to  say  as  mucli 
to  Cardinal  Albano,  who  returned  him  a  most  excellent  and  af- 
fecting letter,  full  of  the  kindest  regard  and  good  counsel,  his 
friends  entertained  a  hope  that  he  would  become  tranquil.  But 
he  disappointed  them.  He  again  applied  to  Alfonso  for  permis- 
sion to  return  to  Ferrara — again  received  it,  though  on  worse  than 
the  old  conditions — and  again  found  himself  in  that  city  in  the  be- 
ginning of  the  year  1579,  delighted  at  seeing  a  brilliant  assem- 
blage from  all  quarters  of  Italy  on  occasion  of  a  new  marriage 
of  the  duke's  (with  a  princess  of  Mantua).  He  made  up  his  mind 
to  think  that  nothing  could  be  denied  him,  at  such  a  moment,  by 
the  bridegroom  whom  he  meant  to  honour  and  glorify. 

Alas !  the  very  circumstance  to  which  he  looked  for  success, 
tended  to  thraw  him  into  the  greatest  of  his  calamities.  Alfonso 
was  to  be  married  the  day  after  the  poet's  arrival.  He  was 
therefore  too  busy  to  attend  to  him.  The  princesses  did  not  at- 
tend to  him.  Nobody  attended  to  him.  He  again  applied  in 
vain  for  his  papers.  He  regretted  his  return  ;  became  anxious 
to  be  any  where  else  ;  thought  himself  not  only  neglected  but 
derided  ;  and  at  length  became  excited  to  a  pitch  of  frenzy.  He 
broke  forth  into  the  most  unmeasured  invectives  against  the  duke, 
even  in  public  ;  invoked  curses  on  his  head  and  that  of  his  whole 
race  ;  retracted  all  he  had  ever  said  in  the  praise  of  any  of  them, 
prince  or  otherwise  ;  and  pronounced  him  and  his  whole  court 
"  a  parcel  of  ingrates,  rascals,  and  poltroons."*  The  outbreak 
was  reported  to  the  duke  ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  the 
poet  was  sent  to  the  hospital  of  St.  Anne,  an  establishment  for  the 
reception  of  the  poor  and  lunatic,  where  he  remained  (with  the 

*  Black's  version  (vol.  ii.  p.  58)  is  not  strong  enough.    The  words  in  Serassi 
are  "  una  ciurma  di  poltroni,  ingrati,  e  ribaldi,"  ii.  p.  33. 
PART  III.  4 


428  TASSO. 


exception  of  a  few  unaccountable  leave-days)  upwards  of  seven 
years.  This  melancholy  event  happened  in  the  March  of  the 
year  1579. 

Tasso  was  stunned  by  this  blow  as  much  as  if  he  had  never 
done  or  suffered  any  thing  to  expect  it.  He  could  at  first  do 
nothing  but  wonder  and  bewail  himself,  and  implore  to  be  set  free. 
The  duke  answered,  that  he  must  be  cured  first.  Tasso  replied 
by  fresh  entreaties  ;  the  duke  returned  the  same  answers.  The 
unhappy  poet  had  recourse  to  every  friend,  prince,  and  great  man 
he  could  think  of,  to  join  his  entreaties  ;  he  sought  refuge  in  com- 
position, but  still  entreated  ;  he  occasionally  reproached  and  even 
bantered  the  duke  in  some  of  his  letters  to  his  friends,  all  of  which, 
doubtless,  were  opened  ;  but  still  he  entreated,  flattered,  adored, 
all  to  no  purpose,  for  seven  long  years  and  upwards.  In  time  he 
became  subject  to  maniacal  illusions  ;  so  that  if  he  was  not  actu- 
ally mad  before,  he  was  now  considered  so.  He  was  not  only 
visited  with  sights  and  sounds,  such  as  many  people  have  experi- 
enced whose  brains  have  been  over-excited,  but  he  fancied  him- 
self haunted  by  a  sprite,  and  become  the  sport  of  "magicians." 
The  sprite  stole  his  things,  and  the  magicians  would  not  let  him 
get  well.  He  had  a  vision  such  as  Benvenuto  Cellini  had,  of  the 
Virgin  Mary  in  her  glory  ;  and  his  nights  were  so  miserable, 
that  he  ate  too  much  in  order  that  he  might  sleep.  When  he 
was  temperate,  he  lay  awake.  Sometimes  he  felt  "  as  if  a  horse 
had  thrown  himself  on  him."  "  Have  pity  on  me,"  he  says  to 
the  friend  to  whom  he  gives  these  affecting  accounts  ;  "1  am 
miserable,  because  the  world  is  unjust."* 

The  physicians  advised  him  to  leave  off'  wine  ;  but  he  says  he 
could  not  do  that,  though  he  was  content  to  use  it  in  moderation. 
In  truth  he  required  something  to  support  him  against  the  physi- 
cians themselves,  for  they  continued  to  exhaust  his  strength  by 
their  medicines,  and  could  not  supply  the  want  of  it  with  air  and 
freedom.  He  had  ringings  in  the  ears,  vomits,  and  fluxes  of  blood. 
It  would  be  ludicrous,  if  it  were  not  deplorably  pathetic,  to  hear 
so  great  a  man,  in  the  commonest  medical  terms,  now  protesting 
against  the  eternal  drenches  of  these  practitioners,  now  humbly 

♦  Opere,  vol.  xiv.  pp.  158,  174,  &c. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  100 


submitting  to  them,  and  now  entrcatinir  like  a  cliild,  tluit  thoy 
might  at  least  not  be  "so  hitter."  The  physicians,  with  tiie 
duke  at  their  head,  were  as  mad  for  their  rhubarbs  and  lancets  as 
the  quacks  in  Moliere  ;  and  notliing  but  the  very  imarnnation 
that  had  nearly  sacrificed  the  poet's  life  to  their  ignorance  could 
have  hindered  him  from  dashing  his  head  against  the  wall,  and 
leaving  them  to  the  execrations  of  posterity.  It  is  the  only  occa- 
sion in  which  the  noble  profession  of  medicine  has  not  appeared 
in  wise  and  beneficent  connexion  with  the  sufferincs  of  men  of 
letters.  Why  did  Ferrara  possess  no  Brocklesby  in  those  days  ? 
no  Garth,  Mead,  Warren,  or  Southwood  Smith  ? 

Tasso  enabled  himself  to  endure  his  imprisonment  with  compo- 
sition. He  supported  it  with  his  poetry  and  his  poem,  and  what, 
alas !  he  had  been  too  proud  of  during  his  liberty,  the  praises  of 
his  admirers.  His  genius  brought  him  gifts  from  princes,  and 
some  money  from  the  booksellers :  it  supported  him  even  against 
his  critics.  During  his  confinement  the  Jerusalem  Delivered  was 
first  published  ;  though,  to  his  grief,  from  a  surreptitious  and  mu- 
tilated copy.  But  it  was  followed  by  a  storm  of  applause  ;  and 
if  this  was  succeeded  by  as  great  a  storm  of  objection  and  contro- 
versy, still  the  healthier  part  of  his  faculties  were  roused,  and  he 
exasperated  his  critics  and  astonished  the  world  by  shewing  how 
coolly  and  learnedly  ine  poor,  wild,  imprisoned  genius  could  dis- 
cuss the  most  intricate  questions  of  poetry  and  philosophy.  The 
disputes  excited  by  his  poem  are  generally  supposed  to  have  done 
him  harm  ;  but  the  conclusion  appears  to  be  ill  founded.  They 
diverted  his  thoughts,  and  made  him  conscious  of  his  powers  and 
his  fame.  I  doubt  whether  he  would  have  been  better  for  entire 
approbation  :  it  would  have  put  him  in  a  state  of  elevation,  unfit 
for  what  he  had  to  endure.  He  had  found  his  pen  his  great  sol- 
ace, and  he  had  never  employed  it  so  well.  It  would  be  incredi- 
ble what  a  heap  of  things  he  wrote  in  this  complicated  torment 
of  imprisonment,  sickness,  and  ''  physic,"  if  habit  and  mental 
activity  had  not  been  sufficient  to  account  for  much  greater  won- 
ders. His  letters  to  his  friends  and  others  would  make  a  good- 
sized  volume  ;  those  to  his  critics,  another ;  sonnets  and  odes,  a 
third  ;  and  his  Dialogues  after  the  manner  of  Plato,  two  more. 
Perhaps  a  good  half  of  all  he  wrote  was  written  in  this  hospital 


430 


TASSO, 


or  St.  Anne  ;  and  he  studied  as  well  as  confiposed,  and  had  to 
read  all  that  was  written  at  the  time,  pro  and  con,  in  the  discussions 
about  his  Jerusalem^  which,  in  the  latest  edition  of  his  works, 
amount  to  three  out  of  six  volumes  octavo !  Many  of  the  occa- 
sions, however,  of  his  poems,  as  well  as  letters,  are  most  painful 
to  think  of,  their  object  having  been  to  exchange  praise  for  money. 
And  it  is  distressing,  in  the  letters,  to  see  his  other  little  wants, 
and  the  fluctuations  and  moods  of  his  mind.  Now  he  is  angry 
about  some  book  not  restored,  or  some  gift  promised  and  delayed. 
Now  he  is  in  want  of  some  books  to  be  lent  him  ;  now  of  some 
praise  to  comfort  him ;  now  of  a  little  fresh  linen.  He  is  very 
thankful  for  visits,  for  respectful  letters,  for  "  sweetmeats ;"  and 
greatly  puzzled  to  know  what  to  do  with  the  bad  sonnets  and 
panegyrics  that  are  sent  him.  They  were  sometimes  too  much 
even  for  the  allowed  ultra  courtesies  of  Italian  acknowledgment. 
His  compliments  to  most  people  are  varied  with  astonishing  grace 
and  ingenuity  ;  his  accounts  of  his  condition  often  sufficient  to 
bring  the  tears  into  the  manliest  eyes ;  and  his  ceaseless  and  vain 
efforts  to  procure  his  liberation  mortifying  when  we  think  of  him- 
self, and  exasperating  when  we  think  of  the  petty  despot  who 
detained  him  in  so  long,  so  degrading,  and  so  worse  than  useless 
a  confinement. 

Tasso  could  not  always  conceal  his  contempt  of  his  imprisoner 
from  the  ducal  servants.  Alfonso  excelled  the  grandiloquent 
poet  himself  in  his  love  of  pomp  and  worship ;  and  as  he  had  no 
particular  merits  to  warrant  it,  his  victim  bantered  his  love  of 
titles.  He  says,  in  a  letter  to  the  duke's  steward,  "  If  it  is  the 
pleasure  of  the  Most  Serene  Signer  Duke,  Most  Clement  and 
Most  Invincible,  to  keep  me  in  prison,  may  I  beg  that  he  will  have 
the  goodness  to  return  certain  little  things  of  mine,  which  his 
Most  Invincible,  Most  Clement,  and  Most  Serene  Highness  has  so 
often  promised  me."* 

But  these  were  rare  ebullitions  of  gaiety,  perhaps  rather  of 


*  "  Prego  V.  Signoria  che  si  contcnti,  se  place  al  Serenissimo  Signor  Duca, 
Clementissimo  ed  Invitissimo,  che  io  Btia  in  prigione,  di  farini  dar  le  poche  robic- 
ciole  niie,  che  S.  A.  Invitissima,  Clementissinia,  Serenissima  m'  ha  promesse 
tante  volte,"  &c.     Opere,  vol.  xiv.  p,  6. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  431 


bitter  despair.  A  playful  address  to  a  cat  to  lend  liim  her  eyes 
to  write  by,  during  some  hour  in  which  lie  hapi)onod  to  l)c  with- 
out  a  light  (for  it  does  not  appear  to  have  been  denied  liini),  may 
be  taken  as  more  probable  evidence  of  a  mind  relieved  at  tlie 
moment,  though  the  necessity  for  the  relief  may  have  been  very 
sad.  But  the  style  in  which  he  generally  alludes  to  his  situation 
is  far  ditierent.  He  continually  begs  his  correspondents  to  pity 
him,  to  pray  for  him,  to  attribute  his  errors  to  infirmity.  He 
complains  of  impaired  memory,  and  acknowledges  that  he  has 
become  subject  to  the  deliriums  formerly  attributed  to  him  by  the 
enemies  that  had  helped  to  produce  them.  Petitioning  the  native 
city  of  his  ancestors  (Bergamo)  to  intercede  for  him  with  the 
duke,  he  speaks  of  the  writer  as  "this  unhappy  person;"  and 
subscribes  himself, — 

"  Most  illustrious  Signors,  your  aifectionate  servant,  Torquato 
TassOj  a  prisoner,  and  infirm,  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Anne  in 
Ferrara." 

In  one  of  his  addresses  to  Alfonso,  he  says  most  affectingly  : 

"I  have  sometimes  attributed  much  to  myself,  and  consider- 
ed myself  as  somebody.  But  now,  seeing  in  how  many  ways 
imagination  has  imposed  on  me,  I  suspect  that  it  has  also  de- 
ceived me  in  this  opinion  of  my  own  consequence.  Indeed,  me- 
thinks  the  past  has  been  a  dream  ;  and  hence  I  am  resolved  to 
rely  on  my  imagination  no  longer." 

Alfonso  made  no  answer. 

The  causes  of  Tasso's  imprisonment,  and  its  long  duration,  are 
among  the  puzzles  of  biography.  The  prevailing  opinion,  not- 
withstanding the  opposition  made  to  it  by  Serassi  and  Black,  is, 
that  the  poet  made  love  to  the  Princess  Leonora — perhaps  was 
beloved  by  her  ;  and  that  her  brother  the  duke  punished  him  for 
his  arrogance.  This  was  the  belief  of  his  earliest  biographer, 
Manso,  who  was  intimately  acquainted  with  the  poet  in  his  latter 
days  ;  and  from  Manso  (though  he  did  not  profess  to  receive  the 
information  from  Tasso,  but  only  to  gather  it  froui  liis  poems)  it 
spread  over  all  Europe.  Milton  took  it  on  trust  from  him  ;*  and 
60  have  our  Enclish  translators  Iloole  and  Witfen.     The  Abbe  do 


*  '< 


Altera  Torquatuni  ccpit  Leonora  poctam,"  tScc. 


432  TASSO. 


Charnes,  however,  declined  to  do  so  ;*  and  Montaigne,  who  saw  the 
poet  in  St.  Anne's  hospital,  says  nothing  of  the  love  at  all.  He  at- 
tributes his  condition  to  poetical  excitement,  hard  study,  and  the 
meeting  of  the  extremes  of  wisdom  and  folly.  The  philosopher,  how- 
ever, speaks  of  the  poet's  having  survived  his  reason,  and  become 
unconscious  both  of  himself  and  his  works,  which  the  reader  knows 
to  be  untrue.  He  does  not  appear  to  have  conversed  with  Tasso. 
The  poet  was  only  shewn  him  ;  probably  at  a  sick  moment,  or 
by  a  new  and  ignorant  official. f  Muratori,  who  was  in  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Este  family  at  Modena,  tells  us,  on  the  authority  of 
an  old  acquaintance  who  knew  contemporaries  of  Tasso,  that  the 
"  good  Torquato"  finding  himself  one  day  in  company  with  the 
duke  and  his  sister,  and  going  close  to  the  princess  in  order  to 
answer  some  question  which  she  had  put  to  him,  was  so  transport- 
eb  by  an  impulse  "  more  than  poetical,"  as  to  give  her  a  kiss  ; 
upon  which  the  duke,  who  had  observed  it,  turned  about  to  his 
gentlemen,  and  said,  "  What  a  pity  to  see  so  great  a  man  dis- 
tracted !"  and  so  ordered  him  to  be  locked  up.:}:  But  this  writer 
adds,  that  he  does  not  know  what  to  think  of  the  anecdote  :  he 
neither  denies  nor  admits  it.  Tiraboschi,  who  was  also  in  the 
service  of  the  Este  family,  doubts  the  truth  of  the  anecdote,  and 
believes  that  the  duke  shut  the  poet  up  solely  for  fear  lest  his 
violence  should  do  harm.§  Serassi,  the  second  biographer  of 
Tasso,  who  dedicated  his  book  to  an  Este  princess  inimical  to  the 
poet's  memory,  attributes  the  confinement,  on  his  own  shewing,  to 
the  violent  words  he  had  uttered  against  his  master.  1|  Walker,  the 
author  of  the  Memoir  on  Italian  Tragedy,  says,  that  the  life  by 
Serassi  himself  induced  him  to   credit  the  love-story  ilT  so   does 

*  Vie  du  Tasse,  1695,  p.  51. 

t  In  the  Apology  for  Raimond  de  Sebonde  ;  Essays,  vol.  ii.  ch.  13. 

X  In  his  Letter  to  Zeno, — Opere  del  Tasso,  xvi.  p.  118. 

§  Storia  della  Poesia  Italiana  (Mathias's  edition),  vol.  iii.  part  i.  p.  236. 

II  Serassi  is  very  peremptory,  and  even  abusive.  He  charges  every  body 
who  has  said  any  thing  to  the  contrary  vi^ith  imposture.  "  Egli  non  v'  ha  dubbio, 
che  le  troppe  imprudenti  e  temerarie  parole,  che  il  Tasso  si  lascii)  uscir  di  bocca 
in  questo  incontro,  furone  la  sola  cagione  della  sua  prigionia,  e  ch'  6  mora  fevola 
ed  impostura  tutto  ci5,che  divcrsamente  h  stato  affermato  e  scritto  da  altri  in  tale 
proposito."  Vol.  ii.  p.  33.  But  we  have  seen  that  the  good  Abbe  could  prac^ 
tise  a  little  imposition  himself.  IF  Black,  ii.  88. 


HIS   LIFE  AND   GEiMUS.  433 

Gingulne.*  Black,  forgetting  the  age  and  illnesses  of  hundreds 
of  enamoured  ladies,  and  the  distraction  of  lovers  at  all  times,  de- 
rides the  notion  of  passion  on  either  side  :  hecause,  he  argues,  Tasso 
was  subject  to  frenzies,  and  Leonora  forty-two  ycareof  age,  and  not 
in  good  hcaltli.f  What  would  Madame  d'lloudctot  have  said  to 
him  ?  or  Mademoiselle  L'Espinasse  ?  or  Mrs.  Inchbuld,  who 
used  to  walk  up  and  down  Sackville  Street  in  order  that  she  might 
see  Dr.  Warren's  licht  in  his  window  ?  Foscolo  was  a  believer 
in  the  love  ;:}:  Sismondi  admits  it  ;§  and  Rosini,  the  editor  of  the 
latest  edition  of  the  poet's  works,  is  passionate  for  it.  He  wonders 
how  any  body  can  fail  to  discern  it  in  a  number  of  passages, 
which,  in  truth,  may  mean  a  variety  of  other  loves  ;  and  he  in- 
sists  much  upon  certain  loose  verses  (lascivi)  which  the  poet, 
among  his  various  accounts  of  the  origin  of  his  imprisonment,  as- 
signs as  the  cause,  or  one  of  the  causes,  of  it.|| 

■  I  confess,  after  a  reasonable  amount  of  inquiry  into  this  sub- 
ject, that  I  can  find  no  proofs  whatsoever  of  Tasso's  having  made 
love  to  Leonora ;  though  I  think  it  highly  probable.  I  believe 
the  main  cause  of  the  duke's  proceedings  was  the  poet's  own  vio- 
lence of  behaviour  and  incontinence  of  speech.  I  think  it  very 
likely  that,  in  the  course  of  the  poetical  love-making  to  various 
ladies,  which  was  almost  identical  in  that  age  with  addressing 
them  in  vei^se,  Torquato,  whellier  he  was  in  love  or  not,  took  more 
liberties  with  the  princesses  than  Alfonso  approved ;  and  it  is 
equally  probable,  that  one  of  those  liberties  consisted  in  his  indul- 
ging his  imagination  too  far.  It  is  not  even  impossible,  that  more 
gallantry  may  have  been  going  on  at  court  than  Alfonso  could 

*  Hist.  Lilt.  dC Italic,  V.  243,  &c.  t  Vol.  ii.  p.  89. 

t  Such  at  least  is  my  impression ;  but  I  cannot  call  the  evidence  to  mind. 

§  Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe  (Roscoe's  translation),  vol.  ii.  p.  165. 
To  shew  the  loose  way  in  which  the  conclusions  of  a  man's  own  mind  are  pre- 
sented as  facts  admitted  by  others,  Sismondi  says,  that  Tasso's  "  passion"  was 
the  cause  of  his  return  to  Ferrara.     There  is  not  a  tittle  of  evidence  to  shew 

for  it 

II  Sas-gio  sugli  Amori,  &c.  ut  sup.  p.  84,  and  passim.  As  specimens  of  tho 
learned  professor's  reasoning,  it  may  be  observed  that  whenever  the  words 
humble,  daring,  high,  noble,  and  roijal,  occur  in  the  port's  love-versos,  he  thinks 
they /»u-s<  allude  to  the  Princess  Leonora;  and  he  ari];ues,  that  Alfonso  never 
could  have  been  so  angry  with  any  "vcrsi  lascivi,"  if  they  had  not  had  the  same 
direction. 


43-1  TASSO, 


endure  to  see  alluded  to,  especially  by  an  ambitious  pen.  But 
there  is  no  evidence  that  such  was  the  case.  Tasso,  as  a  gentle- 
man, could  not  have  hinted  at  such  a  thing  on  the  part  of  a  prin- 
cess of  staid  reputation  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  "  love  "  he 
speaks  of  as  entertained  by  her  for  him,  and  warranting  the  ap- 
plication to  her  for  money  in  case  of  his  death,  was  too  plainly 
worded  to  mean  any  thing  but  love  in  the  sense  of  friendly  regard, 
"  Per  amor  mio  "  is  an  idiomatical  expression,  meaning  "  for  my 
sake ;"  a  strong  one,  no  doubt,  and  such  as  a  proud  man  like  Al- 
fonso might  think  a  liberty,  but  not  at  all  of  necessity  an  amatory 
boast.  If  it  was,  its  very  effrontery  and  vanity  were  presump- 
tions of  its  falsehood.  The  lady  whom  Tasso  alludes  to  in  the 
passage  quoted  on  his  first  confinement  is  complained  of  for  her 
coldness  towards  him  ;  and,  unless  this  was  itself  a  gentlemanly 
blind,  it  might  apply  to  fifty  other  ladies  besides  the  princess. 
The  man  who  assaulted  him  in  the  streets,  and  who  is  supposed 
to  have  been  the  violator  of  his  papers,  need  not  have  found  any 
secrets  of  love  in  them.  The  servant  at  whom  he  aimed  the  knife 
or  the  dagger  might  be  as  little  connected  with  such  matters ; 
and  the  sonnets  which  the  poet  said  he  wrote  for  a  friend,  and 
which  he  desired  to  be  buried  with  him,  might  be  alike  innocent 
of  all  reference  to  Leonora,  whether  he  wrote  them  for  a  friend 
or  not.  Leonora's  death  took  place  during  the  poet's  confine- 
ment ;  and,  lamented  as  she  was  by  the  verse-writers  according 
to  custom,  Tasso  wrote  nothing  on  the  event.  This  silence  has 
been  attributed  to  the  depth  of  his  passion  ;  but  how  is  the  fact 
proved  ?  and  why  may  it  not  have  been  occasioned  by  there  hav- 
ing been  no  passion  at  all  ? 

All  that  appears  certain  is,  that  Tasso  spoke  violent  and  con- 
temptuous words  against  the  duke ;  that  he  often  spoke  ill  of  him 
in  his  letters  ;  that  he  endeavoured,  not  with  perfect  ingenuous- 
ness, to  exchange  his  service  for  that  of  another  prince ;  that  ha 
asserted  his  madness  to  have  been  pretended  in  the  first  instance 
purely  to  gratify  the  duke's  whim  for  thinking  it  so  (which  was 
one  of  the  reasons  perhaps  why  Alfonso,  as  he  complained,  would 
not  believe  a  word  he  said) ;  and  finally,  that,  whether  the  mad- 
ness was  or  was  not  so  pretended,  it  unfortunately  became  a  con- 
firmed though  milder  form  of  mania,  during  a  long  confinement. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  435 


Alfonso,  too  proud  to  forgive  the  poet's  contempt,  continued  thus  to 
detain  him,  partly  perhaps  because  he  was  not  sorry  to  have  a  pre- 
text for  revenge,  partly  because  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
him  consistently  either  with  his  own  or  the  poet's  safety.  He  had 
not  been  generous  enough  to  put  Tasso  above  his  wants  ;  he  had 
not  address  enough  to  secure  his  respect ;  he  had  not  merit  enougli 
to  overlook  his  reproaches.  If  Tasso  had  been  as  great  a  man  as 
he  was  a  poet,  Alfonso  would  not  have  been  reduced  to  these  per- 
plexities. The  poet  would  have  known  how  to  settle  quietly  down 
on  his  small  court-income,  and  wait  patiently  in  the  midst  of  his 
beautiful  visions  for  what  fortune  had  or  had  not  in  store  for  him. 
But  in  truth,  he,  as  well  as  the  duke,  was  weak ;  they  made 
a  bad  business  of  it  between  them  ;  and  Alfonso  the  Second  closed 
the  accounts  of  the  Este  family  with  the  Muses,  by  keeping  his 
panegyrist  seven  years  in  a  mad-house,  to  the  astonishment  of 
posterity,  and  the  destruction  of  his  own  claims  to  renown. 

It  does  not  appear  that  Tasso  was  confined  in  any  such  dungeon 
as  they  now  exhibit  in  Ferrara.  The  conduct  of  the  Prior  of  the 
Hospital  is  more  doubtful.  His  name  was  Agostino  Mosti ;  and, 
strangely  enough,  he  was  the  person  who  had  raised  a  monument 
to  Ariosto,  of  whom  he  was  an  enthusiastic  admii'er.  To  this  predi- 
lection has  been  attributed  his  alleged  cruelty  to  the  stranger  from 
Sorrento,  who  dared  to  emulate  the  fame  of  his  idol ; — an  extraor- 
dinary, though  perhaps  not  incredible,  mode  of  shewing  a  critic's 
regard  for  poetry.  But  Tasso,  while  he  laments  his  severity, 
wonders  at  it  in  a  man  so  well  bred  and  so  imbued  with  literature, 
and  thinks  it  can  only  have  originated  in  "orders."*  Perhaps 
there  were  faults  of  temper  on  both  sides  ;  and  Mosti,  not  liking 
his  office,  forgot  the  allowance  to  be  made  for  that  of  a  prisoner 
and  sick  man.  His  nephew  Giulio  Mosti,  became  strongly  attach- 
ed to  the  poet,  and  was  a  great  comfort  to  him. 

At  lencth  the  time  for  liberation  arrived.  In  the  summer  of 
1586,  Don  Vincenzo  Gonzaga,  Prince  of  Mantua,  kinsman  of  the 
poet's  friend  Scipio,  came  to  Ferrara  for  the  purpose  of  compli- 
menting Alfonso's  heir  on  his  nuptials.  The  whole  court  of  Man- 
tua, with  hereditary  regard  for  Tasso,  whose  father  had  been  one 


♦  Opere,  vol.  xvii.  p.  32. 
4* 


436  TASSO. 


of  their  ornaments,  were  desirous  of  having  him  among  them ; 
and  the  prince  extorted  Alfonso's  permission  to  take  him  away, 
on  condition  (so  hard  did  he  find  this  late  concession  to  humanity, 
and  so  fearful  was  he  of  losing  the  dignity  of  jailor)  that  his  de- 
liverer should  not  allow  him  to  quit  Mantua  without  obtaining 
leave.  A  young  and  dear  friend,  his  most  frequent  visitor.  An- 
tonio  Constantini,  secretary  to  the  Tuscan  ambassador,  went  to 
St.  Anne's  to  prepare  the  captive  by  degrees  for  the  good  news. 
He  told  him  that  he  really  might  look  for  his  release  in  the  course 
of  a  few  days.  The  sensitive  poet,  now  a  premature  old  man  of 
forty-two,  was  thrown  into  a  transport  of  mingled  delight  and 
anxiety.  He  had  been  disappointed  so  often  that  he  could 
scarcely  believe  his  good  fortune.  In  a  day  or  two  he  writes 
thus  to  his  visitor  : 

"Your  kindness,  my  dear  friend,  has  so  accustomed  me  to 
your  precious  and  frequent  visits,  that  I  have  been  all  day  long 
at  the  window  expecting  your  coming  to  comfort  me  as  you  are 
wont.  But  since  you  have  not  yet  arrived,  and  in  order  not  to 
remain  altogether  without  consolation,  I  visit  you  with  this  letter. 
It  encloses  a  sonnet  to  the  ambassador,  written  with  a  trembling 
hand,  and  in  such  a  manner  that  he  will  not,  perhaps,  have  less 
difficulty  in  reading  it  than  I  had  in  writing." 

Two  days  afterwards,  the  prince  himself  came  again,  requested 
of  the  poet  some  verses  on  a  given  subject,  expressed  his  esteem 
for  his  genius  and  virtues,  and  told  him  that,  on  his  return  to 
Mantua,  he  should  have  the  pleasure  of  conducting  him  to  that 
city.  Tasso  lay  awake  almost  all  night,  composing  the  verses ; 
and  next  day  enclosed  them,  with  a  letter,  in  another  to  Constan- 
tini, ardently  begging  him  to"  keep  the  prince  in  mind  of  his  prom- 
ise. The  prince  had  not  forgotten  it ;  and  two  or  three  days 
afterwards,  the  order  for  the  release  arrived,  and  Tasso  quitted 
his  prison.  He  had  been  confined  seven  years,  two  months,  and 
several  days.  He  awaited  the  prince's  departure  for  a  week  or 
two  in  his  friend's  abode,  paying  no  visits,  probably  from  inability 
to  endure  so  much  novelty.  Neither  was  he  inclined  or  sent  for 
to  pay  his  respects  to  the  duke.  Two  such  parties  could  hardly 
have  been  desirous  to  look  on  each  other.  The  duke  must  es- 
pecially have  disliked  the  thought  of  it ;  though  Tasso  afterwards 


HIS    LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  437 


fancied  otherwise,  and  that  ho  was  ollended  at  his  non-appearance. 
But  his  letters,  unfortunately,  differ  witli  themselves  on  this  point, 
as  on  most  otliers.  About  the  middle  of  July  158(3,  the  poet  quit- 
ted  Fcrrara  for  ever. 

At  Mantua  Tasso  was  greeted  with  all  the  honours  and  atten- 
tions which  his  love  of  distinction  could  desire.  The  good  old 
duke,  the  friend  of  his  father,  ordered  handsome  apartments  to  be 
provided  for  him  in  tiie  palace  ;  the  prince  made  him  presents  of 
costly  attire,  including  perfumed  silken  hose  (kindred  elegancies 
to  the  Italian  gloves  of  Queen  Elizabeth)  ;  the  princess  and  her 
mother-in-law  were  declared  admirers  of  his  poetry  ;  the  courtiers 
caressed  the  favourite  of  their  masters ;  Tasso  found  literary  so- 
ciety ;  he  pronounced  the  very  bread  and  fruit,  the  fish  and  the 
flesh,  excellent ;  the  wines  were  sharp  and  brisk  ("  such  as  his 
father  was  fond  of")  ;  and  even  the  physician  was  admirable,  for 
he  ordered  confections.  One  might  imagine,  if  circumstances 
had  not  proved  the  cordial  nature  of  the  Gonzaga  family,  and  the 
real  respect  and  admiration  entertained  for  the  poet's  genius  by 
the  greatest  men  of  the  time,  in  spite  of  the  rebuke  it  had  received 
from  Alfonso,  that  there  had  been  a  confederacy  to  mock  and 
mystify  him,  after  the  fashion  of  the  duke  and  duchess  with  Don 
Quixote  (the  only  blot,  by  the  way,  in  the  book  of  Cervantes ;  if, 
indeed,  he  did  not  intend  it  as  a  satire  on  the  mystifiers). 

For  a  while,  in  short,,  the  liberated  prisoner  thought  himself 
happy.  He  corrected  his  prose  works,  resumed  and  finished  the 
tragedy  of  Torrismond,  which  he  had  begun  some  years  be- 
fore, corresponded  with  princes,  and  completed  and  published  a 
narrative  poem  left  unfinished  by  his  father.  Torquato  was  as 
lovincr  a  son  as  Mozart  or  Montaigne.  Whenever  he  had  a 
glimpse  of  felicity,  he  appears  to  have  associated  the  idea  of  it 
with  that  of  his  father.  In  the  conclusion  of  his  fragment,  "  O 
del  grand'  Apennino,"  he  affectingly  begs  pardon  of  his  blessed 
spirit  for  troubling  him  with  his  earthly  griefs.* 

*  "  Padre,  o  buon  padre,  che  dal  ciel  riniiri, 
Egro  e  morto  ti  piansi,  e  ben  tu  il  sai ; 
E  gemendo  scaldai 

La  tomha  e  il  lotto.     Or  che  ncgli  altri  giri 
Tu  godi,  a  te  si  dcve  onor,  non  lutto : 
A  me  versato  il  mio  dolor  sia  tutto." 


438  TASSO, 


But,  alas,  what  had  been  an  indulgence  of  self-esteem  had  now 
become  the  habit  of  a  disease  ;  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  months 
the  restless  poet  began  to  make  his  old  discovery,  that  he  was  not 
sufficiently  cared  for.  The  prince  had  no  leisure  to  attend  to 
him  ;  the  nobility  did  not  "  yield  him  the  first  place,"  or  at  least 
(he  adds)  they  did  not  allow  him  to  be  treated  "  externally  as 
their  equal ;  and  he  candidly  confessed  that  he  could  not  live  in 
a  place  where  such  was  the  custom.*  He  felt  also,  naturally 
enough,  however  well  it  might  have  been  intended,  that  it  was 
not  pleasant  to  be  confined  to  the  range  of  the  city  of  Mantua, 
attended  by  a  servant,  even  though  he  confessed  that  he  was  now 
subject  to  "  frenzy."  He  contrived  to  stay  another  half-year  by 
help  of  a  brilliant  carnival  and  of  the  select  society  of  the  prince's 
court,  who  were  evidently  most  kind  to  him  ;  but  at  the  end  of 
the  twelvemonth  he  was  in  Bergamo  among  his  relations.  The 
prince  gave  him  leave  to  go  ;  and  the  Cavaliere  Tasso,  his  kins- 
man, sent  his  chariot  on  purpose  to  fetch  him. 

Here  again  he  found  himself  at  a  beautiful  country-seat,  which 
the  family  of  Tasso  still  possesses  near  that  city ;  and  here  again,  in 
the  house  of  his  father,  he  proposed  to  be  happy,  "  having  never 
desired,"  he  says,  "  any  journey  more  earnestly  than  this."  He 
left  it  in  the  course  of  a  month,  to  return  to  Mantua. 

And  it  was  only  to  wander  still.  Mantua  he  quitted  in  less 
than  two  months  to  go  to  Rome,  in  spite  of  the  advice  of  his  best 
friends.  He  vindicated  the  proceeding  by  a  hope  of  obtaining 
some  permanent  settlement  from  the  Pope.  He  took  Loretto  by 
the  way,  to  refresh  himself  with  devotion  ;  arrived  in  a  transport 
at  Rome  ;  got  nothing  from  the  Pope  (the  hard-minded  Sixtus  the 
Fifth)  ;  and  in  the  spring  of  the  next  year,  in  the  triple  hope  of 

O  father,  my  good  father,  looking  now 

On  thy  poor  son  from  heaven,  well  knowest  thou 

What  scaldinrr  tears  I  shed 

Upon  thy  grave,  upon  thy  dying  bed ; 

But  since  thou  dwellest  in  the  happy  skies, 

'Tis  fit  I  raise  to  thee  no  sorrowing  eyes : 

Be  all  my  grief  on  my  own  head. 

*  "  Non  posso  viver  in  cittji,  ove  tutti  1  nobili,  o  non  mi  concedano  i  primi 
luoghi,  o  almeno  non  si  contentino  che  la  cosa  in  quel  che  appartiene  a  queste 
esteriori  dimostrazioni,  vada  del  pari."     Opcre,  vol.  xiii.  p.  153. 


HIS  LIFE  AND  GENIUS.  439 


again  embracing  his  sister,  and  recoveriiii^r  tlio  dowry  of  his  mo- 
ther and  the  confiscated  property  of  his  father,  he  proceeded  to 
Naples. 

Naples  was  in  its  most  beautiful  vernal  condition,  and  the  Ne- 
apolitans welcomed  the  poet  with  all  honour  and  glory  ;  but  his 
, lister,  alas,  was  dead  ;  he  got  none  of  his  father's  property, 
nor  (till  too  late)  any  of  his  mother's ;  and  before  the  year  was 
out,  he  was  again  in  Rome.  He  acquired  in  Naples,  however, 
another  friend,  as  attached  to  him  and  as  constant  in  his  attentions 
as  his  beloved  Constantini,  to  wit,  Giambattista  Manso,  Marquis 
of  Villa,  who  became  his  biographer,  and  who  was  visited  and 
praised  for  his  good  offices  by  Milton.  In  the  society  of  this  gen- 
tleman he  seemed  for  a  short  while  to  have  become  a  new  man. 
He  entered  into  field  sports,  listened  to  songs  and  music,  nay, 
danced,  says  Manso,  with  "the  girls."  (One  fancies  a  poetical 
Dr.  Johnson  with  the  two  country  damsels  on  his  knees.)  In 
short,  good  air  and  freedom,  and  no  medicine,  had  conspired  with 
the  lessons  of  disappointment  to  give  him,  before  he  died,  a  glimpse 
of  the  power  to  be  pleased.  He  had  not  got  rid  of  all  his  spirit- 
ual illusions,  even  those  of  a  melancholy  nature  ;  but  he  took  the 
latter  more  quietly,  and  had  grown  so  comfortable  with  the  race 
in  general,  that  he  encouraged  them.  He  was  so  entirely  freed 
from  his  fears  of  the  Inquisition  and  of  charges  of  magic,  that 
whereas  he  had  formerly  been  anxious  to  shew  that  he  meant 
nothing  but  a  poetical  fancy  by  the  spirit  which  he  introduced  as 
communing  w^ith  liim  in  his  dialogue  entitled  the  Messenger^  he 
now  maintained  its  reality  against  the  arguments  of  his  friend 
Manso  ;  and  these  arguments  gave  rise  to  the  most  poetical  scene 
in  his  history.  He  told  Manso  that  he  should  have  ocular  testi- 
mony of  the  spirit's  existence  ;  and  accordingly  one  day  while 
they  were  sitting  together  at  the  marquis's  fireside,  "  he  turned 
his  eyes,"  says  Manso,  "  towards  a  window,  and  held  them  a  long 
time  so  intensely  on  it,  that,  when  I  called  him,  he  did  not  answer. 
At  last,  '  Behold,'  said  he, '  the  friendly  spirit  which  has  courteous- 
ly come  to  talk  with  me.  Lift  up  your  eyes  and  see  the  truth.' 
I  turned  my  eyes  thither  immediately  (continues  the  marquis) ; 
but  though  I  endeavoured  to  look  as  keenly  as  I  could,  I  beheld 
nothing  but  the  rays  of  the  sun,  which  streamed  through  the  panes 


440  TASSO. 

of  the  window  into  the  chamber.  Whilst  I  still  looked  around, 
without  beholding  any  object,  Torquato  began  to  hold,  with  this 
unknown  something,  a  most  lofty  converse.  I  heard,  indeed,  and 
saw  nothing  but  himself;  nevertheless  his  words,  at  one  time  ques- 
tioning, at  another  replying,  were  such  as  take  place  between  those 
who  reason  strictly  on  some  important  subject.  And  from  what  was 
said  by  the  one,  the  reply  of  the  other  might  be  easily  compre- 
hended by  the  intellect,  although  it  was  not  heard  by  the  ear. 
The  discourses  were  so  lofty  and  marvellous,  both  by  the  sub- 
limity of  their  topics  and  a  certain  unwonted  manner  of  talking, 
that,  exalted  above  myself  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  I  did  not  dare  to 
interrupt  them,  nor  ask  Tasso  about  the  spirit,  which  he  had  an- 
nounced to  me,  but  which  I  did  not  see.  In  this  w^y,  while  I 
listened  between  stupefaction  and  rapture,  a  considerable  time 
had  elapsed  ;  till  at  last  the  spirit  departed,  as  I  learned  from  the 
words  of  Torquato  ;  who,  turning  to  me,  said,  '  From  this  day 
forward  all  your  doubts  will  have  vanished  from  your  mind.' 
*  Nay,'  said  I,  '  they  are  rather  increased  ;  since,  though  I  have 
heard  many  things  worthy  of  marvel,  I  have  seen  nothing  of  what 
you  promised  to  shew  me  to  dispel  them.'     He  smiled,  and  said, 

'  You  have  seen  and  heard  more  of  him  than  perhpas ,'  and 

here  he  paused.  Fearful  of  importuning  him  with  new  questions, 
the  discourse  ended  ;  and  the  only  conclusion  I  can  draw  is,  what 
I  before  said,  that  it  is  more  likely  his  visions  or  frenzies  will  dis- 
order my  own  mind  than  that  I  shall  extirpate  his  true  or  imagi- 
nary opinion."* 

Did  the  "  smile"  of  Tasso  at  the  close  of  this  extraordinary 
scene,  and  the  words  which  he  omitted  to  add,  signify  that  his 
friend  had  seen  and  heard  more,  perhaps,  than  the  poet  would 
have  liked  to  explain  ?  Did  he  mean  that  he  himself  alone  had 
been  seen  and  heard,  and  was  author  of  the  whole  dialogue  ? 
Perhaps  he  did ;  for  credulity  itself  can  impose  ; — can  take 
pleasure  in  seeing  others  as  credulous  as  itself.  On  the  other 
hand,  enough  has  become  known  in  our  days  of  the  phenomena 
of  morbid  perception,  to  render  Tasso's  actual  belfef  in  such 
visions  not  at  all  surprising.     It  is  not  uncommon  for  the  sanest 

*  Black,  vol.  ii.  p.  340. 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  m 


people  of  delicate  organisation  to  see  faces  before  theni  while 
roing  to  sleep,  sometimes  in  fantastical  succession.  A  stroncrer 
jxercise  of  this  disposition  in  temperaments  more  delicate  will 
enlarge  the  face  to  figure  ;  and  there  can  be  no  question  that  an 
magination  so  heated  as  Tasso's,  so  full  of  the  speculations  of  the 
ater  Platonists,  and  accompanied  by  a  state  of  body  so  "  nerv- 
)us,"  and  a  will  so  bent  on  its  fancies,  might  embody  whatever 
16  chose  to  behold.  The  dialogue  he  could  as  easily  read  in  the 
dsion's  looks,  whether  he  heard  it  or  not  with  ears.  If  Nicholay, 
he  Prussian  bookseller,  who  saw  crowds  of  spiritual  people  go 
hrough  his  rooms,  had  been  a  poet,  and  possessed  of  as  wilful  an 
magination  as  Tasso,  he  might  have  gifted  them  all  with  speak- 
ng  countenances  as  easily  as  with  coats  and  waistcoats.  Sweden- 
K)rg  founded  a  religion  on  this  morbid  faculty  ;  and  the  Catholics 
vorship  a  hundred  stories  of  the  like  sort  in  the  Lives  of  the 
Jaints,  many  of  which  are  equally  true  and  false  ;  false  in  reali- 
y,  though  true  in  supposition.  Luther  himself  wrote  and 
tudied  till  he  saw^  the  Devil ;  only  the  great  reformer  retained 
nough  of  his  naturally  sturdy  health  and  judgment  to  throw  an 
akstand  at  Satan's  head, — a  thing  that  philosophy  has  been  doing 
ver  since. 

Tasso's  principal  residence  while  at  Naples  had  been  in  the 
•eautiful  monastery  of  Mount  Olivet,  on  which  the  good  monks 
egged  he  would  write  them  a  poem  ;  which  he  did.  A  cold 
eception  at  Rome,  and  perhaps  the  difference  of  the  air,  brought 
ack  his  old  lamentations  ;  but  here  again  a  monastery  gave  him 
efuge,  and  he  set  himself  down  to  correct  his  former  works  and 
ompose  new  ones.  He  missed,  however,  the  comforts  of  society 
nd  amusement  which  he  had  experienced  at  Naples.  Neverthe- 
3ss,  he  did  not  return  thither.  He  persuaded  himself  that  it  was 
ecessary  to  be  in  Rome  in  order  to  expedite  the  receipt  of  some 
ooks  and  manuscripts  from  Bergamo  and  other  places  ;  but  his 
estlessness  desired  novelty.  He  thus  slipped  back  from  the 
eighbourhood  of  Rome  to  the  city  itself,  and  from  the  city  back 
)  the  monastery,  his  friends  in  both  places  being  probably  tired 
f  his  instability.  He  thought  of  returning  to  Mantua  ;  but  a 
resent  from  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  accompanied  by  an 
avitation  to  his  court,  drew  him,  in  one  of  his  short-lived-trans- 


442 


TASSO. 


ports,  to  Florence.  He  returned,  in  spite  of  the  best  and  most 
generous  reception,  to  Rome  ;  then  left  Rome  for  Mantua,  on 
invitation  from  his  ever-kind  deliverer  from  prison,  now  the  reign- 
ing duke  ;  tired  again,  even  of  him  ;  returned  to  Rome  ;  then 
once  more  to  Naples,  where  the  Prince  of  Conca,  Grand  Admiral 
of  the  kingdom,  lodged  and  treated  him  like  an  equal  ;  but  he 
grew  suspicious  of  the  admiral,  and  went  to  live  with  his  friend 
Manso  ;  quitted  Manso  for  Rome  again  ;  was  treated  with  rever- 
ence on  the  way,  like  Ariosto,  by  a  famous  leader  of  banditti ; 
was  received  at  Rome  into  the  Vatican  itself,  in  the  apartments 
of  his  friend  Cintio  Aldobrandino,  nephew  of  the  new  pope 
Clement  the  Eighth,  where  his  hopes  now  seemed  to  be  raised  at 
once  to  their  highest  and  most  reasonable  pitch  ;  but  fell  ill,  and 
was  obliged  to  go  back  to  Naples  for  the  benefit  of  the  air.  A 
life  so  strangely  erratic  to  the  last  (for  mortal  illness  was  ap- 
proaching) is  perhaps  unique  in  the  history  of  men  of  letters,  and 
might  be  therefore  worth  recording  even  in  that  of  a  less  man 
than  Tasso  ;  "fe'ut  when  we  recollect  that  this  poet,  in  spite  of  all 
his  weaknesses,  and  notwithstanding  the  enemies  they  provokec 
and  the  friends  they  cooled,  was  really  almost  adored  for  his 
genius  in  his  own  time,  and  instead  of  refusing  jewels  one  da} 
and  soliciting  a  ducat  the  next,  might  have  settled  down  almost  an) 
where  in  quiet  and  glory,  if  he  had  but  possessed  the  patience  t( 
do  so, — it  becomes  an  association  of  weakness  with  power,  and  ol 
adversity  with  the  means  of  prosperity,  the  absurdity  of  whicl 
admiration  itself  can  only  drown  in  pity. 

He  now  took  up  his  abode  in  another  monastery,  that  of  Sai 
Severino,  where  he  was  comforted  by  the  visits  of  his  friend  Man 
so,  to  whom  he  had  lately  inscribed  a  dialogue  on  Friendship  . 
for  he  continued  writing  to  the  last.  He  had  also  the  consolation 
such  as  it  was,  of  having  the  lawsuit  for  his  mother's  dowry  set 
tied  in  his  favour,  though  under  circumstances  that  rendered  it  oj 
little  importance,  and  only  three  months  before  his  death.  Si 
strangely  did  Fortune  seem  to  take  delight  in  sporting  with  a  mai 
of  genius,  who  had  thought  both  too  much  of  her  and  too  little 
too  much  for  pomp's  sake,  and  too  little  in  prudence.  Amonj 
his  new  acquaintances  were  the  young  Marino,  afterwards  th( 
corrupter  of  Italian  poetry,  and  the  Prince  of  Venosa,  an  amateu 


HIS    LIFK   AND   GENIUS.  413 


composer  of  music.  The  dying  poet  wrote  mndrij^'als  for  him  so 
much  lo  liis  satisfoction,  that,  heing  about  to  marry  into  the  house 
of  Este,  lie  wished  to  reconcile  him  with  the  Duke  of  Forrara  ; 
and  Tasso,  who  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life  seems  never  to  have 
been  able  to  resist  the  chance  of  resuming  old  quarters,  apparently 
from  the  double  temptation  of  renouncing  them,  wrote  his  old 
master  a  letter  full  of  respects  and  regrets.  But  the  duke,  who 
himself  died  in  the  course  of  the  year,  was  not  to  be  moved  from 
his  silence.  The  poet  had  given  him  the  last  possible  offence  by 
recasting  his  Jerusalem,  omitting  the  glories  of  the  house  of  Este, 
and  dedicating  it  to  another  patron.  Alfonso,  who  had  been  ex- 
travagantly magnificent,  though  not  to  poets,  had  so  weakened 
his  government,  that  the  Pope  wrested  Ferrara  from  the  hands  of 
his  successor,  and  reduced  the  Este  family  to  the  possession  of 
Modena,  which  it  still  holds  and  dishonours.  The  duke  and  the 
poet  were  thus  fading  away  at  the  same  time  ;  they  never  met 
again  in  this  world  :  and  a  new  Dante  would  have  divided  them 
far  enough  in  the  next.* 

The  last  glimpse  of  honour  and  glory  was  now  opening  in  a 

very  grand  manner  on  the  poet — the  last  and  the  greatest,  as  if  on 

purpose  to  give  the  climax  to  his  disappointments.     Cardinal  Cin- 

Lio  requested  the  Pope  to  give  him  the  honour  of  a  coronation. 

[t  had  been  desired  by  the  poet,  it  seems,  three  years  before.     He 

was  disappointed  of  it  at  that  time  ;   and  now  that  it  was  granted, 

he  was  disappointed  of  the  ceremony.     Manso  says  he  no  longer 

ared  for  it ;   and,  as  he  felt  himself  dying,  this  is  not  improbable. 

>fevertheless  he  went  to  Rome  for  the  purpose  ;   and  though  the 

everity   of  the  winter  there  delayed  the   intention   till   spring, 

-vealth  and  honours  seemed  determined  to  come  in  floods  upou  the 

)oor  expiring  great  man,  in  order  to  take  away  the  breath  which 

hey  had  refused  to  support.     The  Pope  assigned  him  a  yearly 

)ension  of  a  hundred  scudi  ;   and  the  withholders  of  his  mother's 

lowry  came  to  an  accommodation  by  which  he  was  to  have  aai 

.nnuity  of  a  hundred  ducats,  and  a  considerable  sum  in  hand. 


•■  The  world  in  general  have  taken  no  notice  of  Tasso's  re-construction  of  his 
Jerusalem,  which  he  called  the  Gerusalemnie  Conquistata.  It  never  "obtained," 
3  the  phrase  is.  It  was  the  mere  tribute  of  his  declining  years  to  bigotry  and 
ew  acquaintances;  and  therefore  I  say  no  more  of  it. 


444  TASSO. 


His  hand  was  losing  strength  enough  to  close  upon  the  money. 
Scarcely  was  the  day  for  the  coronation  about  to  dawn,  when  the 
poet  felt  his  dissolution  approaching.  Alfonso's  doctors  had  killed 
him  at  last  by  superinducing  a  habit  of  medicine-taking,  which 
defeated  its  purpose.  He  requested  leave  to  return  to  the  monas- 
tery of  St.  Onofi'io — wrote  a  farewell  letter  to  Constantini — re- 
ceived the  distinguished  honour  of  a  plenary  indulgence  from  the 
Pope — said  (in  terms  very  like  what  Milton  might  have  used,  had 
he  died  a  Catholic),  that  "  this  was  the  chariot  upon  which  he 
hoped  to  go  crowned,  not  with  laurel  as  a  poet  into  the  capitol, 
but  with  glorj'  as  a  saint  to  heaven  " — and  expired  on  the  25th 
of  April,  1575,  and  the  fifty-first  year  of  his  age,  closely  embra- 
cing the  crucifix,  and  imperfectly  uttering  the  sentence  begin- 
ning, "  Into  thy  hands,  O  Lord  !"* 

Even  after  death,  success  mocked  him  ;  for  the  coronation  took 
place  on  the  senseless  dead  body.  The  head  was  wreathed  with 
laurel ;  a  magnificent  toga  delayed  for  a  while  the  shroud  ;  and 
a  procession  took  place  through  the  city  by  torchlight,  all  the  in- 
habitants pouring  forth  to  behold  it,  and  painters  crowding  over 
the  bier  to  gaze  on  the  poet's  lineaments,  from  which  they  pro- 
duced a  multitude  of  portraits.  The  corpse  was  then  buried  in 
the  church  of  St.  Onofrio  ;  and  magnificent  monuments  talked  of, 
which  never  appeared.  Manso,  however,  obtained  leave  to  set 
up  a  modest  tablet ;  and  eight  years  afterwards  a  Ferrarese  car- 
dinal (Bevilacqua)  made  what  amends  he  could  for  his  country- 
men, by  erecting  the  stately  memorial  which  is  still  to  be  seen. 

Poor,  illustrious  Tasso  !  weak  enough  to  warrant  pity  from  his 
inferiors — great  enough  to  overshadow  in  death  his  once-fancied 
superiors.  He  has  been  a  by- word  for  the  misfortunes  of  genius ; 
but  genius  was  not  his  misfortune  ;  it  was  his  only  good,  and  might 
have  brought  him  all  happiness.  It  is  the  want  of  genius,  as  far 
as  it  goes,  and  apart  from  martyrdoms  for  conscience'  sake,  which  ■■ 
produces  misfortunes  even  to  genius  itself — the  want  of  as  much) 
wit  and  balance  on  the  common  side  of  things,  as  genius  is  sup- 
posed to  confine  to  the  uncommon. 

Manso  has  left  a  minute  account  of  his  friend's  person  and ' 

*  In  nmmis  tuas,  Domine.    One  likes  to  know  the  actual  words;  at  least  soi 
it  appears  to  me.  j 


t 

1 


HIS    LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  445 


iiuiers.  He  was  tall,  even  among  the  tall  ;  luul  a  pale  com- 
jxion,  sunken  cheeks,  lightish  brown  hair,  head  bald  at  the  top, 
•ge  blue  eyes,  square  forehead,  big  nose  inclining  towards  the 
)uth,  lips  pale  and  thin,  white  teeth,  delicate  white  hands,  long 
ms,  broad  chest  and  slioulders,  legs  rather  strong  than  fleshy, 
d  the  body  altogether  better  proportioned  than  in  good  condi- 
n  ;  the  result,  nevertheless,  being  an  aspect  of"  manly  beauty 
d  expression,  particularly  in  the  countenance,  the  dignity  of 
lich  marked  him  for  an  extraordinary  person  even  to  those  who 
1  not  know  him.  His  demeanour  was  grave  and  deliberate  ; 
laughed  seldom  ;  and  though  his  tongue  was  prompt,  his  de- 
ary was  slow  ;  and  he  was  accustomed  to  repeat  his  la^t  words. 
3  was  expert  in  all  manly  exercises,  but  not  equally  graceful ; 
d  the  same  defect  attended  his  otherwise  striking  eloquence  in 
blic  assemblies.  His  putting  to  flight  the  assassins  in  Ferrara 
ve  him  such  a  reputation  for  courage,  that  there  went  about  in 
5  honour  a  popular  couplet : 

"  Colla  penna  e  colla  spada 
Nessun  val  quanto  Torquato." 

For  the  sword  as  well  as  pen 
Tasso  is  the  man  of  men. 

I  was  a  little  eater,  but  not  averse  to  wine,  particularly  such  as 
Tnbined  piquancy  with  sweetness  ;  and  he  always  dressed  in 
ick. 

Manso's  account  is  still  more  particular,  and  yet  it  does  not  tell 
for  Tasso  himself  informs  us  that  he  stammered,  and  was 
ir-sighted  ;*    and  a  Neapolitan  writer  who  knew  him  adds   to 

near-sightedness  some  visible  defect  in  the  eyes.f  I  should 
ibt,  from  what  Tasso  says  in  his  letters,  whether  he  was  fond 
speaking  in  public,  notwithstanding  his  debut  in  that  line  with 

Fifty  Amorous  Conclusions.     Nor  does  he   appear  to  have 

Serassi,  ii.  276. 

"  Qucm  cernis,  quisquis  rs,  procera  statiira  vinmi,  luscis  oculis,  &c.  hie 
quatus  est." — Cappacio,  Illustrium  Litcris  Virorum  Elosria  et  Judicia, 
:ed  by  Serassi,  ut  sup.  The  Latin  word  luscus,  as  well  as  the  Italian  Iosco, 
ns,  I  believe,  near-sighted;  but  it  certainly  means  also  a  great  deal  more; 
unless  the  word  cernis  (thou  beholdest)  is  a  mere  form  of  speech  implying 
•egone  conclusion,  it  shews  that  the  defect  was  obvious  to  the  spectator. 


446  TASSO. 

been  remarkable  for  his  conversation.  Manso  has  left  a  colle< 
tion  of  one  hundred  of  his  pithy  sayings — a  suspicious  amoun 
and  unfortunately  more  than  warranting  the  suspicion  ;  for  a 
most  every  one  of  them  is  traceable  to  some  other  man.  The 
come  from  the  Greek  and  Latin  philosophers,  and  the  apothegn 
of  Erasmus.  The  two  following  have  the  greatest  appearanc 
of  being  genuine  : 

A  Greek,  complaining  that  he  had  spoken  ill  of  his  country 
and  maintaining  that  all  the  virtues  in  the  world  had  issued  oi 
of  it,  the  poet  assented  ;  with  the  addition,  that  they  had  not  le 
one  behind  them. 

A  foolish  young  fellow,  garnished  with  a  number  of  golde 
chains,  coming  into  a  room  where  he  was,  and  being  overhear 
by  him  exclaiming,  "  Is  this  the  great  man  that  was  mad  ? 
Tasso  said,  "  Yes ;  but  that  people  had  never  put  on  him  moi 
than  one  chain  at  a  time.^' 

His  character  may  be  gathered,  but  not  perhaps  entirely,  froi 
what  has  been  written  of  his  life ;  for  some  of  his  earlier  lette] 
shew  him  to  have  been  not  quite  so  grave  and  refined  in  his  wa 
of  talking  as  readers  of  the  Jerusalem  might  suppose.  He  W£ 
probably  at  that  time  of  life  not  so  scrupulous  in  his  morals  as  h 
professed  to  be  during  the  greater  part  of  it.  His  mother  ; 
thought  to  have  died  of  chagrin  and  impatience  at  being  separate 
so  long  from  her  husband,  and  not  knowing  what  to  do  to  save  he 
dowry  from  her  brothers  ;  and  I  take  her  son  to  have  combine 
his  mother's  ultra-sensitive  organisation  with  his  father's  worldl 
imprudence  and  unequal  spirits.  The  addition  of  the  nervoi: 
temperament  of  one  parent  to  the  aspiring  nature  of  the  othe 
gave  rise  to  the  poet's  trembling  eagerness  for  distinction  ;  an 
Torquato's  very  love  for  them  both  hindered  him  from  seein 
what  should  have  been  corrected  in  the  infirmities  which  he  ir 
herited.  Falling  from  the  highest  hopes  of  prosperity  into  th 
most  painful  afTlictions,  he  thus  wanted  solid  principles  of  actio 
to  support  him,  and  was  forced  to  retreat  upon  an  excess  of  sel 
esteem,  which  allowed  his  pride  to  become  a  beggar,  and  his  na 
urally  kind,  loving,  just,  and  heroical  disposition  to  condescend  1 
almost  every  species  of  inconsistency.     The  Duke  of  Ferran 


HIS  LIFE  AND   GENIUS.  4-17 


c  complains,  did  not  believe  a  word  he  said  ;*  and  the  fact  is, 
it,  partly  from  disease,  and  partly  from  a  want  of  courage  to 
)k  his  defects  in  the  face,  he  beheld  the  same  tliincrs  in  so  many 
Ibrent  lights,  and  according  as  it  suited  him  at  the  moment, 
it,  without  intending  falsehood,  his  statements  are  really  not  to 
relied  on.  He  degraded  even  his  verses,  sometimes  with 
negyrics  for  interest's  sake,  sometimes  out  of  weak  wishes  to 
lige,  of  which  he  was  afterwards  ashamed  ;  and,  witii  the  ex- 
ption  of  Constantini,  we  cannot  be  sure  that  any  one  person 
aised  in  them  retained  his  regard  in  his  last  days.  His  suspi- 
)n  made  him  a  kind  of  Rousseau  ;  but  he  was  more  amiable 
an  the  Genevese,  and  far  from  being  in  the  habit  of  talking 
ainst  old  acquaintances,  whatever  he  might  have  thought  of 
?m.  It  is  observable,  not  only  that  he  never  married,  but  he 
id  Manso  he  had  led  a  life  of  entire  continence  ever  since  he 
tered  the  walls  of  his  prison,  being  then  in  his  thirty-fifth  year."j" 
las  this  out  of  fidelity  to  some  mistress  ?  or  the  consequence  of 
iprevious  life  the  reverse  of  continent  ?  or  was  it  from  some 
inciple  of  superstition  ?  He  had  become  a  devotee,  apparently 
It  of  a  dread  of  disbelief;  and  he  remained  extremely  religious 
r  the  rest  of  his  days.  The  two  unhappiest  of  Italian  poets, 
asso  and  Dante,  were  the  two  most  superstitious. 

t  lAs  for  the  once  formidable  question  concerning  the  compara- 
e  merits  of  this  poet  and  Ariosto,  which  anticipated  the  modern 
barrels  of  the  classical  and  romantic  schools,  some  idea  of  the 
^atment  which  Tasso  experienced  may  be  conceived  by  sup- 
sing  all  that  used  to  be  sarcastic  and  bitter  in  the  periodical  party- 
iticism  among  ourselves  some  thirty  years  back,  collected  into 
le  huge  vial  of  wrath,  and  poured  upon  the  new  poet's  head, 
en  the  great  Galileo,  who  was  a  man  of  wit,  bred  up  in  the 
re  Tuscan  school  of  Berni  and  Casa,  and  who  was  an  idolator 
Ariosto,  wrote,  when  he  was  young,  a  "review"  of  the  Jeru- 
hm  Delivered,  which  it  is  painful  to  read,  it  is  so  unjust  and 

'  "  II  Signer  Duca  non  crcde  ad  alcuna  mia  parola."     Opere,  xiv.  IGI. 
r  "  Fui  da  bocca  di  lui  mcdesimo  rassicurato,  chc  dal  tempo  del  suo  ritegno 
snnt'  Anna,  ch'  avenne  negli  anni  trentacinque  della  sua  vita  e  sedici  avanti  la 
rtc,  egli  intieraniente  fu  casto :  dcgli  anni  prinii  non  mi  favcUo  mai  di  modo 
io  possa  alcuna  cosa  di  certo  qui  raccontare."     Opere,  xxxiii.  235. 


448  TASSO. 


contemptuous.*  But  now  that  the  only  final  arbiter,  posterity, 
has  accepted  both  the  poets,  the  dispute  is  surely  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  world  to  settle  ;  not,  indeed,  with  prejudices  of  creeds  oi 
temperaments,  but  before  any  judges  thoroughly  sympathising 
with  the  two  claimants.  Its  solution  is  the  principle  of  the 
greater  including  the  less.  For  Ariosto  errs  only  by  having  ar 
unbounded  circle  to  move  in.  His  sympathies  are  unlimited : 
and  those  who  think  him  inferior  to  Tasso,  only  do  so  in  conse- 
quence of  their  own  want  of  sympathy  with  the  vivacities  that  de- 
grade him  in  their  eyes.  Ariosto  can  be  as  grave  and  exalted  as 
Tasso  when  he  pleases,  and  he  could  do  a  hundred  things  which 
Tasso  never  attempted.  He  is  as  different  in  this  respect  as 
►Shakspeare  from  Milton.  He  had  far  more  knowledge  of  man- 
kind than  Tasso,  and  he  was  superior  in  point  of  taste.  But  it  isj 
painful  to  make  disadvantageous  comparisons  of  one  great  poell 
with  another.  Let  us  be  thankful  for  Tasso's  enchanted  gardens, 
without  being  forced  to  vindicate  the  universal  world  of  his  pre- 
decessor. Suffice  it  to  bear  in  mind,  that  the  grave  poet  himself 
agreed  with  the  rest  of  the  Italians  in  calling  the  Ferrarese  the 
"  divine  Ariosto  ;"  a  title  which  has  never  been  popularly  given 
to  his  rival. 

The  Jerusalem  Delivered  is  the  history  of  a  Crusade,  related 
with  poetic  license.  The  Infidels  are  assisted  by  unlawful  arts ; 
and  the  libertinism  that  brought  scandal  on  the  Christians,  is  con- 
verted into  youthful  susceptibility,  led  away  by  enchantment. 
The  author  proposed  to  combine  the  ancient  epic  poets  with  Ari- 
osto, or  a  simple  plot,  and  uniformly  dignified  style,  with  roman- 
tic varieties  of  adventure,  and  the  luxuriance  of  fairy-land.  Pie 
did  what  he  proposed  to  do,  but  with  a  judgment  inferior  to  Vir- 
gil's ;  nay,  in  point  of  the  interdependence  of  the  adventures,  to 
Ariosto,  and  with  far  less  general  vigour.  The  mixture  of  affec- 
tation  with  his  dignity  is  so  frequent,  that,  whether  Boileau's  fa- 
mous line  about  Tasso's  tinsel  and  Virgil's  gold  did  or  did  not 
mean  to  imply  that  the  Jerusalem  was  nothing  but  tinsel,  and  the 
jEneid  all  gold,  it  is  certain  that  the  tinsel  is  so  interwoven  with  | 
the  gold,  as  to  render  it  more  of  a   rule  than  an  exception,  and  |TI 

*  It  is  to  be  found  in  the  collected  works,  ut  supra,  both  of  the  philosopher  i 
and  the  poet. 


I 


HIS    LIFE   AND   GENIUS.  419 


put  a  provoking  distance  between  Tasso's  epic  pretensions  and 
jtliose  of  the  greatest  masters  of  tlie  art.  lVoj)le  wlio  take  for 
granted  the  conceits  because  of  tlie  "  wildness"  of  Ariosto,  and 
tlie  good  taste  because  of  the  "  regularity"  of  Tasso,  just  assume 
ithe  reverse  of  the  fact.  It  is  a  rare  thing  to  find  a  conceit  in 
lAriosto  ;  and,  where  it  does  exist,  it  is  most  likely  defensible  on 
some  Shakspearian  ground  of  subtle  propriety.  Open  Tasso  in 
almost  anv  part,  particularly  the  love-scenes,  and  it  is  marvellous 
if,  before  long,  you  do  not  see  the  conceits  vexatiously  interfering 
with  the  beauties. 

"  Oh  maraviglia!     Amor,  chc  appcna  6  nato, 
Gii  iirande  vola,  e  cri^  trionfa  armato."         Canto  i.  st.  47. 

Oh,  niiraclo!     Love  is  scarce  born,  wlien,  lo. 
He  tlies  full  wing'd,  and  lords  it  with  his  bow  ! 

I 

"  Se  '1  miri  fuhiiinar  nc  1'  arme  avvolto, 
1  Marie  lo  stiini ;  Amor,  se  scopre  il  volto."         St.  58. 

Mars  you  would  think  him,  when  his  thund'ring  race 
In  arms  he  ran ;  Love,  when  he  shcw'd  his  face. 

I 

|\Vhich  is  as  little  true  to  reason  as  to  taste  ;   for  no  god  of  war 

30uld  look  like  a  god  of  love.     The  habit  of  mind  would  render 

ft  impossible.     But  the  poet  found  the  prettiness  of  the  Greek 

ALUthology  irresistible. 

Olindo,  tied  to  the  stake  amidst  the  flames  of  martyrdom,  can 

say  to  his  mistress  : 

"  Altre  fianime,  altri  nodi  amor  promise."        Canto  ii.  st.  34. 
Other  flames,  other  bonds  than  these,  love  promised. 

The  sentiment  is  natural,  but  the  double  use  of  the  "  flames"  on 
such  an  occasion,  miserable. 

In  the  third  canto  the  fair  Amazon  Clorinda  challenges  her  love 
0  sincle  combat. 


"  E  di  due  morti  in  un  punto  lo  sfida."  St.  23. 

"  And  so  at  once  she  threats  to  kill  him  twice."  Fairfax. 

That  is  to  say,  with  her  valour  and  beauty. 

,   Another  twofold  employment  of  flame,  with  an  exclamation 


450  TASSO. 


to  secure  our  astonishment,  makes  its  appearance  in  the  fourth 

canto : 

"  Oh  miracol  d'  amor !  che  le  faville 
Tragge  del  pianto,  e  i  cor'  ne  1'  acqua  accende."  St.  76. 

Oh,  miracle  of  love !  that  draweth  sparks 

Of  fire  from  tears,  and  kmdlest  hearts  m  water ! 

This  puerile  antithesis  of /re  and  water,  fire  and  ice,  light  in  dark- 
ness, silence  in  speech,  together  with  such  pretty  turns  as  wound- 
ing one's-self  in  wounding  others,  and  the  worse  sacrifice  of  con- 
sistency and  truth  of  feeling, — lovers  making  long  speeches  on 
the  least  fitting  occasions,  and  ladies  retaining  their  rosy  cheeks 
in  the  midst  of  fears  of  death, — is  to  be  met  with,  more  or  less, 
throughout  the  poem.  I  have  no  doubt  they  were  the  proximate 
cause  of  that  general  corruption  of  taste  which  was  afterwards 
completed  by  Marino,  the  acquaintance  and  ardent  admirer  of 
Tasso  when  a  boy.  They  have  been  laid  to  the  charge  of  Pe- 
trarch ;  but,  without  entering  into  the  question,  how  far  and  in 
what  instances  conceits  may  not  be  natural  to  lovers  haunted,  as 
Petrarch  was,  with  one  idea,  and  seeing  it  in  every  thing  they 
behold,  what  had  the  great  epic  poet  to  do  with  the  faults  of  the 
lyrical  ?  And  what  is  to  be  said  for  his  standing  in  need  of  the 
excuse  of  bad  example  ?  Homer  and  Milton  were  in  no  such 
want.  Virgil  would  not  have  copied  the  tricks  of  Ovid.  There 
is  an  effeminacy  and  self  reflection  in  Tasso,  analogous  to  his 
Rinaldo,  in  the  enchanted  garden  ;  where  the  hero  wore  a  looking- 
glass  by  his  side,  in  which  he  contemplated  his  sophisticated  self, 
and  the  meretricious  beauty  of  his  enchantress.* 

Agreeably  to  this  tendency  to  weakness,  the  style  of  Tasso, 
when  not  supported  by  great  occasions  (and  even  the  occasion 
itself  sometimes  fails  him),  is  too  apt  to  fall  into  tameness  and 
commonplace, — to  want  movement  and  picture  ;  while,  at  the 
same  time,  with  singular  defect  of  enjoyment,  it  does  not  possess 

*  It  is  an  extraordinary  instance  of  a  man's  violating,  in  older  life,  the  better 
critical  principles  of  his  youth, — that  Tasso,  in  his  Discourses  on  Poetry,  should 
have  objected  to  a  passage  in  Ariosto  about  sighs  and  tears,  as  being  a  "  conceit 
too  lyrical,"  (though  it  was  warranted  by  the  subtleties  of  madness,  see  present 
volume,  p.  131),  and  yet  afterwards  riot  in  the  same  conceits  when  wholly 
without  warrant. 


i 


HIS   LIFE  AND  GENIUS.  451 


the  music  which  might  be  exj>ectcd  from  a  lyrical  and  voluptuous 
poet.  13ernar(lo  prophesied  of  his  son,  that,  liowever  ho  ini<rht 
surpass  him  in  other  respects,  he  would  never  equal  him  in  sweet- 
ness ;  and  he  seems  to  have  judged  him  riirhtly.  i  imve  met 
with  a  passage  in  Torquato's  prose  writings  (but  I  cannot  lay  my 
hands  on  it),  in  which  he  expresses  a  singular  i)redilecti()n  for 
verses  fuU  of  tlie  same  vowel.  He  seems,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
to  have  regarded  it,  not  merely  as  a  pleasing  variety,  which  it  is 
on  occasion,  but  as  a  reigning  principle.  Voltaire  (I  tiiink,  in 
his  treatise  on  Epic  Poetry)  has  noticed  the  multitude  of  o's  in 
the  exordium  of  the  Jerusalem.  This  apparent  negligence  seems 
io  have  beea  intentional. 

*'  Cant6  r  armi  pictiise  c  '1  capitan5 

Che  '1  gran  Sep6lcr6  libcr6  di  Cristf) ; 
M6lth  I'gli  »)pr6  c5l  scnnO  c  c6n  la  inaiir>, 

M()lt6  s6fl'ri  nel  glOrioso  acquistC) ; 
E  invan  1'  iiifernt>  a  lui  s'  6pp5se ;  0  invan6 

S'  arm6  d'  Asia  e  di  Libia  il  p6p6l  misto  ; 
Che  il  ciel  gli  die  fov6re,  e  s6tt5  ai  santi 
Segni  ridusse  i  sut)i  c6nipagni  erranti." 

The  reader  will  not  be  surprised  to  find,  that  he  who  could  thus 
confound  monotony  with  music,  and  commence  his  greatest  poem 
with  it,  is  too  often  discordant  in  the  rest  of  his  versification.  It 
has  been  thought,  that  Milton  might  have  taken  from  the  Italians 
the  grand  musical  account  to  which  he  turns  a  list  of  proper 
names,  as  in  his  enumerations  of  realms  and  deities  ;  but  I  have 
been  surprised  to  find  how  little  the  most  musical  of  languages 
appears  to  have  suggested  to  its  poets  anything  of  the  sort.  I  am 
not  aware  of  it,  indeed,  in  any  poets  but  our  own.  All  others, 
i  from  Homer,  with  his  catalogue  of  leaders  and  ships,  down  to 
Mctastasio  himself,  though  he  wrote  for  music,  appear  to  have 
overlooked  this  opportunity  of  playing  a  voluntary  of  fine  sounds, 
where  they  had  no  other  theme  on  which  to  modulate.  Its  in- 
ventor, as  far  as  I  am  aware,  is  that  great  poet,  Marlowe.* 

it  ♦  Aapiaviu3v  avT   Tjp^eVy  cvi  rais  Ay;^;(ffao, 

V  Aivfiaj'  rov  vn   Ay^icTj  tckc  Si  A<PpoiiTti 

l6ni  tv  Kvr\fioiai^  Ota  /3fior<^  £VVT)Q€i(Ta' 
PART  III.  5 


452  TASSO. 


There  are  faults  of  invention  as  well  as  style  in  the  Jerusalem. 
The  Talking  Bird,  or  bird  that  sings  with  a  human  voice  (can- 
to iv.  13),  is  a  piece  of  inverisimilitude,  which  the  author,  perhaps, 
thought  justifiable  by  the  speaking  horses  of  the  ancients.     But 

OvK  oioi'  ajxit  T.yys  cvio  A.vTi]vopos  v'lt, 

Iliad,  ii.  819. 

1 1  b  ciuious  that  these  five  lines  should  abound  as  much  in  a's  as  Tasso's  first 
Btanza  does  in  o's.  Similar  monotonies  are  strikingly  observable  in  the  nomen- 
clatures of  Virgil.     See  his  most  perfect  poem,  the  Georgics : 

"  Omni^  secum 
"Armentirius  Wfer  hgit,  tectumque,  Li\remque, 
'Armaque,  'Amyclaeumque  cJinem,  Crcssimque  pharetrim." 

Lib.  iii.  343. 

It  is  clear  that  Dante  never  thought  of  this  point.  See  his  Mangiadore,  San- 
vittore,  Natan,  Raban,  &c.  at  the  end  of  the  twelfth  canto  of  the  Paradiso.  Yet 
in  liis  time  poetry  was  rccitatired  to  music.  So  it  was  in  Petrarch's,  who  was  a 
lutenist,  and  who  "  tried"  his  verses,  to  see  how  they  would  go  to  the  instrument. 
Yet  Petrarch  could  allow  himself  to  write  such  a  quatram  as  the  followino- 
list  of  rivers : 

"  Non  Tesin,  P5,  Varo,  Arno,  Adige  e  Tebro, 
Eufrate,  Tigre,  Nilo,  Ermo,  Indo  e  Gange, 
Tana,  Istro,  Alfeo,  Garrona,  6  '1  mar  che  frange, 
Rodano,  Ibero,  Ren,  Senna,  Albia,  Era,  Ebro!" 

In  Tasso's  Sette  Giomate,  to  which  Black  thinks  Milton  indebted  for  his  grand 
use  of  proper  names,  the  following  is  the  way  in  which  the  poet  writes : 

"  Di  SilvJini 
Di  Pi\ni,  e  d'  Egipini,  e  d'  iiltri  errinti, 
Ch'  empier  le  solitarie  incults  solve 
D'  antiche  maraviglie  ;  e  quell'  accbltd 
Esercit^  di  Bacco  in  5riente 
Ond'  egli  vinse,  e  trionf5  dcgl'  Indi, 
Tornand5  gl6ri5sb  ai  Greci  Udi, 
Sicc5m'  e  fav6l0s5  antico  trrido." 

The  most  diversified  passage  of  this  kind  (as  far  as  I  am  aware)  is  Ariosto's  list 
of  his  friends  at  the  close  of  the  Orlando ;  and  yet  such  writing  as  follows 
would  seem  to  shew  that  it  was  an  accident : 

•'  lb  veggiu  il  Fracast5r5,  il  BevazzanO, 
Trifbn  Gabriel,  e  il  Tass5  piu  Ibntanb  ; 
Vegg6  NiccblO  TiepoU,  e  cOn  essb 
NiccOlO  .\raani6  in  me  affissar  le  cicrlia ; 

•9  / 


!  '  HIS   LIFE   AND    GENIUS. 


453 


he  latter  were  moved  supernatunilly  for  the  occasion,  and  for  a 
'ery  line  occasion.  Tasso's  bird  is  a  inere  born  contradiction  to 
lature  and  for  no  necessity.  Tlio  vulgar  idea  of  the  devil  witli 
lorns  and  a  tail  (though  the  retention  of  it  argued  a  genius  in 
Tasso  very  inferior  to  that  of  Milton)  is  defensible,  I  think,  on  tiie 
lea  of  the  German  critics,  that  malignity  sliould  be  made  a  thin"- 
o\v  and  deformed  ;  but  as  much  cannot  be  said  for  the  storeiiouse 
a  heaven,  where  St.  Michael's  spear  is  kept  with  which  he  slew 
he  dragon,  and  the  trident  which  is  used  for  making  earthquakes 
canto  vii.  st.  81).  The  tomb  which  supernaturally  comes  out 
f  the  ground,  inscribed  with  the  name  and  virtues  of  Sueno, 
canto  viii.  st.  39),  is  worthy  only  of  a  pantomime ;  and  the  wiz- 
ird  in  robes,  with  beech-leaves  on  his  head,  who  walks  dry-shod 
m  water,  and  superfluously  helps  the  knights  on  their  way  to 
^rmida's  retirement  (xiv.  33),  is  almost  as  ludicrous  as  the 
)urlesque  of  the  river-god  in  the  Voyage  of  Bachaumont  and 
^hapelle. 

But  let  us  not  wonder,  nevertheless,  at  the  effect  which  the 
Terusalcm  has  had  upon  the  world.  It  could  not  have  had  it  with- 
»ut  great  nature  and  power.  Rinaldo,  in  spite  of  his  aberrations 
vith  Armida,  knew  the  path  to  renown,  and  so  did  his  poet. 
Tasso's  epic,  with  all  its  faults,  is  a  noble  production,  and  justly 

Aut6n  Fulgbst),  ch'  a  vedermi  appress6 
Al  lit6,  m5stra  gaudio  c  maraviglia. 
II  mi5  ValcriC)  e  quel  clie  \ii  .s'  b  mess6 
Fu6r  dc  Ic  dunne,"  &c. 

ven  IMetastasio,  who  wrote  expressly  for  singers,  and  oflcn  with  exquisite 
nodulation,  especially  in  his  songs,  forgets  himself  when  he  comes  to  the  names 
►f  his  dramatis  personcc, — "  Artiserse,  'Aritba.no  ,'Arbicc,  Mindine,  Semiri, 
tfegJibise," — all  in  one  play. 

"  Gran  cose  io  temo.     II  mio  germino  'Arbice 
Pirte  priil  de  1'  aurori.     II  pfidre  arinito 
Incontro,  e  non  mi  pJirla^.      AiH^usd  ii  ciclo 
'Acritiito  Artiiscrsc,  e  m'  ibbindoni."         Atto  i.  so.  6. 

am  far  from  intending  to  say  that  these  reiterations  arc  not  sometimes  allow- 
ible,  nay,  often  beautiful  and  desirable.  Alliteration  itself  may  be  rendered  an 
ixquisite  instrument  of  music.  I  am  only  spetiking  of  monotony  or  discord  in 
he  enumeration  of  proper  names. 


4^  TASSO. 

considered  one  of  the  poems  of  the  world.  Each  of  those  poems  i^ 
hit  some  one  great  point  of  universal  attraction,  at  least  in  their 
respective  countries,  and  among  the  givers  of  fame  in  others. 
Homer's  poem  is  that  of  action  ;  Dante's,  of  passion  ;  Virgil's, 
of  judgment ;  Milton's,  of  religion  ;  Spenser's,  of  poetry  itself ; 
Ariosto's,  of  animal  spirits  (I  do  not  mean  as  respects  gaiety  only, 
but  in  strength  and  readiness  of  accord  with  the  whole  play  of 
nature)  ;  Tasso  looked  round  with  an  ultra-sensitive  temperament, 
and  an  ambition  which  required  encouragement,  and  his  poem  is 
that  of  tenderness.  Every  thing  inclines  to  this  point  in  his  cir- 
cle, with  the  tremulousness  of  the  needle.  Love  is  its  all  in  all, 
even  to  the  design  of  the  religious  war  which  is  to  rescue  the 
sepulchre  of  the  God  of  Charity  from  the  hands  of  »the  unloving. 
Ilis  heroes  are  all  in  love,  at  least  those  on  the  right  side  ,•  his 
leader,  Godfrey,  notwithstanding  his  prudence,  narrowly  escapes 
the  passion,  and  is  full  of  a  loving  consideration  ;  his  amazon, 
Clorinda,  inspires  the  truest  passion,  and  dies  taking  her  lover's 
hand  ;  his  Erminia  is  all  love  for  an  enemy  ;  his  enchantress 
Armida  falls  from  pretended  love  into  real,  and  forsakes  her  re- 
ligion for  its  sake.  An  old  father  (canto  ix.)  loses  his  five  sons 
in  battle,  and  dies  on  their  dead  bodies  of  a  wound  which  he  has 
provoked  on  purpose.  Tancred  cannot  achieve  the  enterprise  of 
the  Enchanted  Forest,  because  his  dead  mistress  seems  to  come 
out  of  one  of  the  trees.  Olindo  thinks  it  happiness  to  be  martyred 
at  the  same  stake  with  Sophronia.  The  reconciliation  of  Rinaldo 
with  his  enchantress  takes  place  within  a  few  stanzas  of  the  close 
of  the  poem,  as  if  contesting  its  interest  with  religion.  The  Jeru- 
salem Delivered,  in  short,  is  the  favourite  epic  of  the  young  :  all 
the  lovers  in  Europe  have  loved  it.  The  French  have  forgiven 
the  author  his  conceits  for  the  sake  of  his  gallantry  :  he  is  the 
poet  of  tlie  gondoliers  ;  and  Spenser,  the  most  luxurious  of  his 
brethren,  plundered  his  bowers  of  bliss.  Read  Tasso's  poem  by 
this  gentle  light  of  his  genius,  and  you  pity  him  twenty-fold,  and 
know  not  what  excuse  to  find  for  his  jailer. 

The  stories  translated  in  the  present  volume,  though  including 
war  and  magic,  are  all  love-stories.  They  were  not  selected  on  that 
account ,  They  suggested  themselves  for  selection,  as  containing 
most  of  the  finest  things  in  the  poem.     They  are  conducted  with 


irst 
Dfii 
perf 
clus 

Sopl 


fori 
tiali 

10V£ 

upo 


fror 


teii 


ofr 


Tai 


abit 


HIS   LIFE   AND   GKMUS. 


great  art,  and  the  characters  and  aOcctions  happily  varied.  The 
first  {Olindo  and  Sophronia)  is  pcrliaps  uni(iut>  for  the  hopolessiw.ss 
of  its  comniencenient  (I  mean  witli  regard  to  the  lovers),  and  the 
perfect,  and  at  the  same  time  quite  probable,  felicity  of  the  con- 
clusion. There  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  the  staid  and  devout 
Sophronia  would  have  loved  her  adorer  at  all,  but  for  the  circum- 
stance  that  first  dooms  them  both  to  a  shocking  death,  and  then 
sends  them,  with  perfect  warrant,  from  the  stake  to  the  altar. 
Clorinda  is  an  Amazon,  the  idea  of  whom,  as  such,  it  is  impossible 
for  us  to  separate  from  very  repulsive  and  unfeminine  images  ;  yet, 
under  the  circumstances  of  the  story,  we  call  to  mind  in  her  be- 
half the  possibility  of  a  Joan  of  Arc's  having  loved  and  been  be- 
loved ;  and  her  death  is  a  surprising  and  most  affecting  variation 
upon  that  of  Agrican  in  Boiardo.  Tasso's  enchantress  Armida  is 
a  variation  of  the  Angelica  of  the  same  poet,  combined  with  Ari- 
osto's  Alcina  ;  but  her  passionate  voluptuousness  makes  her  quite 
a  new  character  in  regard  to  the  one ;  and  she  is  as  dillerent 
from  the  painted  hag  of  the  Orlando  as  youth,  beauty,  and  patri- 
otic intention  can  make  her.  She  is  not  very  sentimental ;  but 
all  the  passion  in  the  world  has  sympathised  with  her  ;  and  it  was 
manly  and  honest  in  the  poet  not  to  let  her  Paganism  and  ve- 
hemence hinder  him  from  doing  justice  to  her  claims  as  a  human 
being  and  a  deserted  woman.  Her  fate  is  left  in  so  pleasing  a 
state  of  doubt,  that  we  gladly  avail  ourselves  of  it  to  suppose  her 
married  to  Rinaldo,  and  becoming  the  mother  of  a  line  of  Chris- 
tian princes.  I  wish  they  had  treated  her  poet  half  so  well  as  she 
would  infallibly  have  treated  him  herself. 

But  the  singer  of  the  Crusades  can  be  strong  as  well  as  gentle. 
You  discern  in  his  battles  and  single  combats  the  poet  ambitious 
of  renown,  and  the  accomplished  swordsman.  The  duel  of  Tan- 
cred  and  Argantes,  in  which  the  latter  is  slain,  is  as  earnest  and 
fiery  writing  throughout  as  truth  and  passion  could  desire  ;  that  of 
Tancred  and  Clorinda  is  also  very  powerful  as  well  as  alfecling  ; 
and  the  whole  siege  of  Jerusalem  is  admirable  for  the  strength  of 
its  interest.  Every  body  knows  the  grand  verse  (not,  however, 
quite  original)  that  summons  the  devils  to  council,  "  ('hiama  gli 
abitator,"  &c.  ;    and  the  still   grander,  though  less  original  one, 


y 


456  TASSO. 


describing  the  desolations  of  time,  "  Giace  1'  alta  Cartago."*  The 
forest  filled  with  supernatural  terrors  by  a  magician,  in  order  that 
the  Christians  may  not  cut  wood  from  it  to  make  their  engines  of 
war,  is  one  of  the  happiest  pieces  of  invention  in  romance.  It  is 
founded  in  as  true  human  feeling  as  those  of  Ariosto,  and  is  made 
an  admirable  instrument  for  the  aggrandizement  of  the  character 
of  Rinaldo.  Godfrey's  attestation  of  all  time,  and  of  the  host  of 
heaven,  when  he  addresses  his  army  in  the  first  canto,  is  in  the 
highest  spirit  of  epic  magnificence.  So  is  the  appearance  of  the 
celestial  armies,  together  with  that  of  the  souls  of  the  slain  Chris- 
tian  warriors,  in  the  last  canto,  where  they  issue  forth  in  the  air 
to  assist  the  entrance  into  the  conquered  city.  The  classical 
poets  are  turned  to  great  and  frequent  account  throughout  the 
poem  ;  and  yet  the  work  has  a  strong  air  of  originality,  partly 
owing  to  the  subject,  partly  to  the  abundance  of  love-scenes,  and 
to  a  certain  compactness  in  the  treatment  of  the  main  story,  not- 
withstanding the  luxuriance  of  the  episodes.  The  Jerusalem 
Deliver,ed  is  stately,  well-ordered,  full  of  action  and  character, 
sometimes  sublime,  always  elegant,  and  very  interesting — more 
so,  I  think,  as  a  whole,  and  in  a  popular  sense,  than  any  other 
story  in  verse,  not  excepting  the  Odyssey.  For  the  exquisite  do- 
mestic attractiveness  of  the  second  Homeric  poem  is  injured,  like 
the  hero  himself,  by  too  many  diversions  from  the  main  point. 
There  is  an  interest,  it  is  true,  in  that  very  delay  ;  but  we  become 
too  much  used  to  the  disappointment.  In  the  epic  of  Tasso  the 
reader  constantly  desires  to  learn  how  the  success  of  the  enter- 
prise is  to  be  brought  about ;  and  he  scarcely  loses  sight  of  any 
of  the  persons  but  he  wishes  to  see  them  again.  Even  in  the 
love-scenes,  tender  and  absorbed  as  they  are,  we  feel  that  the  he- 
roes are  fighters,  or  going  to  fight.  When  you  are  introduced  to 
Armida  in  the  Bower  of  Bliss,  it  is  by  warriors  who  come  to  take 
her  lover  away  to  battle. 

One  of  the  reasons  why  Tasso  hurt  the  style  of  his  poem  by  a 
manner  too  lyrical  was,  that  notwithstanding  its  deficiency  in 
sweetness,  he  was  one  of  the  profusest  lyrical  writers  of  his  na- 
tion, and  always  having  his  feelings  turned  in  upon  himself.     I 

♦  See  them  both  in  the  present  volume,  pp.  420  and  445. 


HIS   Lll-'li  AND  ^.,i..NiLo.  .i:.7 


am  not  sunicicntly  acquainted  with  his  odes  and  sonnets  to  spcuk 
of  them  in  the  gross  ;  but  I  may  be  allowed  to  express  my  U'lii-f 
that  they  possess  a  great  deal  of  fancy  and  R-elinL,'.  It  has  been 
wondered  liow  he  could  write  so  many,  considering  tjjo  troubles 
he  went  through  :  but  the  experience  was  the  reason.  The  con- 
stant succession  of  hopes,  fears,  wants,  gratitudes,  loves,  and 
the  necessity  of  employing  his  imagination,  accounts  l«ir  all. 
Some  of  his  sonnets,  such  as  those  on  the  Countess  of  Scandiauo's 
lip  ("  Quel  labbro,"  &c.)  ;  the  one  to  Stigliano,  concluding  with 
the  atlecting  mention  of  himself  and  his  lost  harp  ;  that  begiiming 

"  lo  veggio  in  cicia  sciiitillar  le  stcllc ," 

recur  to  my  mind  oftener  than  any  others  except  Dante's  "  Tanto 
gentile"  and  Filicaia^s  Lament  on  llahj  ;  and,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  of  the  more  famous  odes  of  Petrarch,  and  one  or  two  of 
Filicaia's  and  Guidi's,  I  know  of  none  in  Italian  like  several  of 
Tasso's,  including  his  fragment  "  O  del  grand'  Apcnnino,"  and 
tlie  exquisite  chorus  on  the  Golden  Age,  which  struck  a  note  in 
the  hearts  of  the  world. 

His  Aminta,  the  chief  pastoral  poem  of  Italy,  though,  with  the 
exception  of  that  ode,  not  equal  in  passages  to  the  Faithful  Shep- 
erfZ<:s5  (which  is  a  Pan  to  it  compared  with  a  beardless  shepherd), 
is  elegant,  interesting,  and  as  superior  to  Guarini's  more  sophisti- 
cate  yet  still  beautiful  Pastor  Fido  as  a  first  thought  may  be  sup- 
posed  to  be  to  its  emulator.  The  objection  of  its  being  too  elegant 
for  shepherds  he  anticipated  and  nullified  by  making  Love  himsell 
account  for  it  in  a  charming  prologue,  of  which  the  god  is  the 
speaker : 

"  Qucste  selvc  oggi  ragionar  d'  Amore 
S'  udranno  in  nuova  guisa ;  c  ben  paraBsi, 
Che  la  inia  Dt-iui  sia  qui  prcsrnlc 
In  se  medcsina,  c  non  nc'  8Uoi  ministri. 
Spircrb  nobil  sensi  k  rozzi  |)otti ; 
Ra(l(loIrir6  nello  lor  linguc  il  suono : 
Prrrh6,  ovunquc  i'  mi  sia,  io  sono  Amorp 
Nc'  pastori  non  men  oho  ncgli  eroi ; 
E  la  tlisaggiiaglianz-a  dr'  ROggotti, 
Come  a  mc  piacp,  ngguaglio    o  qucfita  6  puro 


458  TASSa 


Suprema  glcaia,  e  gran  miracol  mio, 
Render  simili  alle  piii  dotte  cetre 
Le  rustiche  sampogne." 

After  new  fashion  shall  these  woods  to-day 

Hear  love  discoursed ;  and  it  shall  well  be  seers 

That  my  divinity  is  present  here 

In  its  own  person,  not  its  ministers, 

I  will  inbreathe  high  fancies  in  rvide  hearts  ; 

I  will  refine  and  render  dulcet  sweet 

Their  tongues ;  because,  wherever  I  may  be. 

Whether  with  rustic  or  heroic  men, 

There  am  I  Love ;  and  inequahty, 

As  it  may  please  me,  do  I  equalise  ; 

And  'tis  my  crowning  glory  and  great  miracle 

To  make  the  rural  pipe  as  eloquent 

Even  as  the  subtlest  harp. 

I  ought  not  to  speak  of  Tasso's  other  poetry,  or  of  his  prose,  for 
I  have  read  little  of  either  ;  though,  as  they  are  not  popular  with 
his  countrymen,  a  foreigner  may  be  pardoned  for  thinking  his 
classical  tragedy,  Torrismmido,  not  attractive — his  Sette  Giornate 
(Seven  Days  of  the  Creation)  still  less  so — and  his  platonical 
and  critical  discourses  better  filled  with  authorities  than  reasons. 

Tasso  was  a  lesser  kind  of  Milton,  enchanted  by  the  Sirens. 
We  discern  the  weak  parts  of  his  character,  more  or  less,  in  all 
his  writings  ;  but  we  see  also  the  irrepressible  elegance  and  su- 
periority of  the  mind,  which,  in  spite  of  all  weakness,  was  felt  to 
tower  above  its  age,  and  to  draw  to  it  the  homage  as  well  as  the 
resentment  of  princes. 


OLINDO   AND   SOPHRONIA. 


^rigitment. 

The  Mahomedan  king  of  Jerusalem,  at  the  instigation  of  Ismeno,  a  magician, 
deprives  a  Christian  church  of  its  image  of  the  Virgin,  and  sets  it  up  in  a 
mosque,  under  a  spell  of  enchantment,  as  a  palladium  against  the  Crusaders. 
The  image  is  stolen  in  the  night;  and  the  king,  unable  to  discover  who  has 
taken  it,  orders  a  massacre  of  the  Christian  portion  of  his  subjects,  which  is 
prevented  by  Sophronia's  accusing  herself  of  the  offence.  Her  lover,  Olindo, 
finding  her  sentenced  to  the  stake  in  consequence,  disputes  with  her  the  right 
of  martyrdom.  He  is  condemned  to  suffer  with  her.  The  Amazon  Clorinda, 
who  has  come  to  fight  on  the  side  of  Aladin,  obtains  their  pardon  in  acknow- 
ledgment of  her  services ;  and  Sophronia,  who  had  not  loved  Olindo  before, 
now  returns  his  passion,  and  goes  with  Mm  from  the  stake  to  the  marriage-altar. 


OLINDO   AND   SOPIIRONIA. 


Godfrey  of  Boulogne,  the  leader  of  tlie  Crusaders,  was  now  in 
full  march  for  Jerusalem  with  the  Christian  army  ;  and  Ahidin, 
the  old  infidel  king,  became  agitated  with  wrath  and  terror,  lie 
had  heard  nothinor  but  accounts  of  the  enemy's  irresistible  ad- 
vance.  There  were  many  Christians  witin'n  his  walls  whose  in- 
surrection he  dreaded  ;  and  though  lie  had  appeared  to  grow 
milder  with  age,  he  now,  in  spite  of  the  frost  in  his  veins,  felt  as 
hot  for  cruelty,  as  the  snake  excited  by  the  fire  of  summer.  I  lo 
longed  to  stifle  his  fears  of  insurrection  by  a  massacre,  but  dread- 
ed the  consequence  in  the  event  of  the  city's  being  taken.  lie 
therefore  contented  himself,  for  the  present,  with  laying  wa.ste  the 
country  round  about  it,  destroying  every  possible  receptacle  of 
the  invaders,  poisoning  the  wells,  and  doubly  fortifying  the  only 
weak  point  in  his  fortifications. 

At  this  juncture  the  renegade  Ismeno  stood  before  him — a  bad 
old  man  who  had  studied  unlawful  arts.  He  could  bind  and 
loose  evil  spirits,  and  draw  the  dead  out  of  their  tombs,  restoring 
to  them  breath  and  perception.  This  man  told  the  king,  that  in 
the  church  belonging  to  his  Christian  subjects  there  was  an  altar 
underground,  on  which  stood  a  veiled  imago  of  the  woman  whom 
they  worshipped — the  mother,  as  they  called  her,  of  their  dead 
and  buried  God.  A  dazzling  light  burnt  for  ever  before  it ;  and 
the  walls  were  hung  with  the  offerings  of  her  credulous  devotees. 
If  this  image,  he  said,  were  taken  away  by  the  king's  own  hand, 
and  set  up  in  a  mosque,  such  a  spell  of  enchantment  could  be 
thrown  about  it  as  should  render  the  city  impregnable  so  long  as 
the  idol  was  kept  safe. 

Aladin  proceeded  instantly  to  the  Christian  temple,  and,  treat- 
ing the  priests  with  violence,  tore  the  image  from  its  shrine  and 


46-2  OLINDO  AND   SOPHRONIA. 


conveyed  it  to  his  own  place  of  worship.  The  necromancer  then 
muttered  before  it  his  blasphemous  enchantment. 

But  tlie  light  of  morning  no  sooner  appeared  in  the  mosque, 
than  the  official  to  whose  charge  the  palladium  had  been  commit- 
ted missed  it  from  its  place,  and  in  vain  searched  every  other  to 
find  it.  In  truth  it  never  was  found  again ;  nor  is  it  known  to 
this  day  how  it  went.  Some  think  the  Christians  took  it ;  others 
that  Heaven  interfered  in  order  to  save  it  from  profanation.  And 
well  (says  the  poet)  does  it  become  a  pious  humility  so  to  think 
of  a  disappearance  so  wonderful. 

The  king,  who  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  not  doubting  that 
some  Christian  was  the  offender,  issued  a  proclamation  setting  a 
price  on  the  head  of  any  one  who  concealed  it.  But  no  discovery 
was  made.  The  necromancer  resorted  to  his  art  with  as  little 
effect.  The  king  then  ordered  a  general  Christian  massacre. 
His  savage  wrath  hugged  itself  on  the  reflection,  that  the  criminal 
would  be  sure  to  perish,  perish  else  who  might. 

The  Christians  heard  the  order  with  an  astonishment  that  took 
away  all  their  powers  of  resistance.  The  suddenness  of  the  pres- 
ence of  death  stupified  them.  They  did  not  resort  even  to  an  en- 
treaty. They  waited,  like  sheep,  to  be  butchered.  Little  did 
they  think  what  kind  of  saviour  was  at  hand. 

There  was  a  maiden  among  them  of  ripe  years,  grave  and  beau- 
tiful ;  one  who  took  no  heed  of  her  beauty,  but  was  altogether  ab- 
sorbed in  high  and  holy  thoughts.  If  she  thought  of  her  beauty 
ever,  it  was  only  to  subject  it  to  the  dignity  of  virtue.  The 
greater  her  worth,  the  more  she  concealed  it  from  the  world,  liv- 
ing a  close  life  at  home,  and  veiling  herself  from  all  eyes. 

But  the  rays  of  such  a  jewel  could  not  but  break  through  their 
casket.  Love  would  not  consent  to  have  it  so  locked  up.  Love 
turned  her  very  retirement  into  attraction.  There  was  a  youth 
who  had  become  enamoured  of  this  hidden  treasure.  His  name 
was  Olindo  ;  Sophronia  was  that  of  the  maiden.  Olindo,  like 
herself,  was  a  Christian ;  and  the  humbleness  of  his  passion  was 
equal  to  the  worth  of  her  that  inspired  it.  He  desired  much, 
hoped  little,  asked  nothing.*     He  either  knew  not  how  to  disclose 

*  "  Braina  assai,  proco  spera,  e  nulla  chiede."— Canto  ii.  st.  16. 
A  line  justly  famous. 


OLL\DO  AND  iSOrUKOMA. 


his  love,  or  did  not  dare  it.  And  she  eilhrr  drspisid  it,  or  di.I 
not,  or  would  not,  see  it.  Tiie  poor  youtjj,  np  to  tlii»  day,  had 
got  nothing  by  his  devotion,  not  even  n  look. 

The  niiiiden,  who  was  nevertheless  as  generous  as  she  wqh 
virtuous,  fell  into  deep  thouglit  how  she  might  save  her  Christian 
brethren.  She  soon  came  to  her  resolve.  She  delayed  the  cxe- 
cution  of  it  a  little,  only  out  of  a  sense  of  virgin  decorum,  which 
in  its  turn,  made  her  still  more  resolute.  She  issued  forth  by 
herself,  in  the  sight  of  all,  not  mullling  up  her  beauty,  nor  yet 
exposing  it.  She  withdrew  her  eyes  beneath  a  veil,  and,  attired 
neither  with  ostentation  nor  carelessness,  passed  througii  the 
streets  with  unatFected  simplicity,  admired  by  all  save  herself. 
She  went  straight  before  the  king.  Ilis  angry  aspect  did  not  re- 
pel her.  She  drew  aside  the  veil,  and  looked  him  steadily  in  tjje 
face. 

"  I  am  come,"  she  said,  "  to  beg,  sir,  that  you  will  suspend 
your  wrath,  and  withhold  the  orders  given  to  your  people.  I 
know  and  will  give  up  the  author  of  the  deed  which  has  olFended 
you,  on  that  condition." 

At  the  noble  confidence  thus  displayed,  at  the  sudden  appari- 
tion  of  so  much  lofty  and  virtuous  beauty,  the  king's  countenance 
was  confused,  and  its  angry  expression  abated.  Had  his  spirit 
been  less  stern,  or  the  look  she  gave  him  less  firm  in  its  purpose, 
he  would  have  loved  her.  But  haughty  beauty  and  haughty  be- 
holder are  seldom  drawn  together.  Glances  of  pleasure  are  the 
baits  of  love.  And  yet,  if  the  ungentle  king  was  not  enamoured, 
he  was  impressed.  He  was  bent  on  gazing  at  her ;  he  felt  an 
emotion  of  delight. 

"  Say  on,"  he  replied  ;   "  I  accept  the  condition." 

"Behold  then,"  said  she, '' the  offender.  Tiie  deed  was  the 
work  of  this  hand.  It  was  I  that  conveyed  away  the  image.  I 
am  she  whom  you  look  for.     I  am  the  criminal  to  be  punished." 

And  as  she  spake,  she  bent  her  head  before  him,  as  already 
yielding  it  to  the  executioner. 

Oh,  noble  falsehood  !  when  was  truth  to  be  compared  with 
thee  ?* 

♦  "  Magnanima  mengogna!  or  quanilo  6  il  vero 
SI  belio,  chc  si  possa  a  te  preporreV 


464  OLINDO  AND    SOPHRONIA. 


The  king  was  struck  dumb.  He  did  not  fail  into  his  accus- 
tomed transports  of  rage.  When  he  recovered  from  his  astonish- 
ment,  he  said,  "  Who  advised  you  to  do  this  ?  Who  was  your 
accomplice  ?" 

"  Not  a  soul,"  replied  the  maiden.  "  I  would  not  have  allowed 
another  person  to  share  a  particle  of  my  glory.  I  alone  knew 
of  the  deed  ;  I  alone  counselled  it  ;   I  alone  did  it." 

"  Then  be  the  consequence,"  cried  he,  "on  your  own  head." 

"  'Tis  but  just,"  returned  Sophronia.  "  Mine  was  the  sole 
honour;   mine,  therefore,  should  be  the  only  punishment." 

The  tyrant  at  this  began  to  feel  the  accession  of  his  old  wrath. 
"  Where,"  he  said,   "  have  you  hidden  the  image  ?" 

"  I  did  not  hide  it,"  she  replied,  "  I  burnt  it.  I  thought  it 
fit  and  righteous  to  do  so.  I  knew  of  no  other  way  to  save  it 
from  the  hands  of  the  unbelieving.  Ask  not  for  what  will  never 
again  be  found.  Be  content  with  the  vengeance  you  have  before 
you." 

Oh,  chaste  heart !  oh,  exalted  soul  !  oh,  creature  full  of  noble- 
ness !  think  not  to  find  a  forgiving  moment  return.  Beauty  itself 
is  thy  shield  no  longer. 

The  glorious  maiden  is  taken  and  bound.  The  cruel  king 
has  condemned  her  to  the  stake.  Her  veil,  and  the  mantle  that 
concealed  her  chaste  bosom,  are  torn  away,  and  her  soft  arms 
tied  with  a  hard  knot  behind  her.  She  said  nothing  ;  she  was  not 
terrified  ;  but  yet  she  was  not  unmoved.  Her  bosom  heaved 
in  spite  of  its  courage.  Her  lovely  colour  was  lost  in  a  pure 
white. 

The  news  spread  in  an  instant,  and  the  city  crowded  to  the 
sight,  Christians  and  all,  Olindo  among  them.  He  had  thought 
within  himself,  "  What  if  it  should  be  Sophronia  !"  But  when 
he  beheld  that  it  was  she  indeed,  and  not  only  condemned,  but 
already  at  the  stake,  he  made  through  the  crowd  with  violence, 
crying  out,  "  This  is  not  the  person, — this  poor  simpleton  !  She 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing ;  she  had  not  the  courage  to  do  it ; 
she  had  not  the  strength.  How  was  she  to  carry  the  sacred  im- 
age away  ?     Let  her  abide  by  her  story  if  she  dare.     I  did  it." 

Such  was  the  love  of  the  poor  youth  for  her  that  loved  him 
not. 


0L1?\D0  AND   SOPHROMA.  455 


When  he  came  up  to  the  stake,  he  gave  a  formal  account  of 
what  he  pretended  to  liave  done.  "  I  climbed  in,"  he  said,  "  at 
the  window  of  your  mosque  at  night,  and  found  a  narrow  passage 
round  to  the  image,  where  nobody  could  expect  to  meet  me.  I 
shall  not  suffer  the  penalty  to  be  usurped  by  another.  I  did  tlie 
deed,  and  I  will  have  the  honour  of  doing  it,  now  that  it  comes  to 
this.     Let  our  places  be  exchanged." 

Sophronia  had  looked  up  when  she  heard  the  youth  call  out, 
and  she  gazed  on  him  with  eyes  of  pity.  "  What  madness  is 
this  !"  exclaimed  she.  "  What  can  induce  an  innocent  person  to 
bring  destruction  on  himself  for  nothing  ?  Can  I  not  bear  the 
thing  by  myself?  Is  the  anger  of  one  man  so  tremendous,  that 
one  person  cannot  sustain  it  ?  Trust  me,  friend,  you  are  mistaken. 
I  stand  in  no  need  of  your  company." 

Thus  spoke  Sophronia  to  her  lover  ;  but  not  a  whit  was  he  dis- 
posed to  alter  his  mind.  Oh,  great  and  beautiful  spectacle  !  Love 
and  virtue  at  strife  ; — death  the  prize  they  contend  for ; — ruin 
itself  the  salvation  of  the  conqueror  ! 

But  the  contest  irritated  the  king.  He  felt  himself  set  at 
nought ;  felt  death  itself  despised,  as  if  in  despite  of  the  inflictor. 
''  Let  them  be  taken  at  their  words,"  cried  he ;  "  let  both  have 
the  prize  they  long  for." 

The  youth  is  seized  on  the  instant,  and  bound  like  the  maiden. 
Both  are  tied  to  the  stake,  and  set  back  to  back.  They  behold 
not  the  face  of  one  another.  The  wood  is  heaped  round  about 
them  ;  the  fire  is  kindled. 

The  youth  broke  out  into  lamentations,  but  only  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  by  his  fellow-sufferer.  "  Is  this,  then,"  said  he,  "  the 
bond  which  I  hoped  might  join  us  ?  Is  this  the  fire  which  I 
thought  might  possibly  warm  two  lovers'  hearts  ?*  Too  long  (is  it 
not  so  ?)  have  we  been  divided,  and  now  too  cruelly  are  we  united  : 
too  cruelly,  I  say,  but  not  as  regards  me  ;  for  since  I  am  not  to 
be  partner  of  thy  existence,  gladly  do  I  share  thy  death.  It  is 
thy  fate,  not  mine,  that  afflicts  me.  Oh  !  too  happy  were  it  to 
me,  too  sweet  and  fortunate,  if  I  could  obtain  grace  enough  to  be 
set  with  thee  heart  to  heart,  and  so  breathe  out  my  soul  into  thy 

*  This  conceit  is  more  dwelt  upon  in  the  original,  coupled  with  the  one  no- 
ticed at  p.  217. 


4ge  OLINDO  AND   SOPHRONIA. 


lips !     Perhaps  thou  wouldst  do  the  like  with  mine,  and  so  give 
me  thy  last  sigh." 

Tims  spoke  the  youth  in  tears  ;  but  the  maiden  gently  reproved 

him. 

She  said  :  "  Other  thoughts,  my  friend,  and  other  lamentations 
hcfit  a  time  like  this.  Why  thinkest  thou  not  of  thy  sins,  and  of 
the  rewards  which  God  has  promised  to  the  righteous  1  Meet 
thy  sufferings  in  his  name  ;  so  shall  their  bitterness  be  made  sweet, 
and  thy  soul  be  carried  into  the  realms  above.  Cast  thine  eyes 
upwards,  and  behold  them.  See  how  beautiful  is  the  sky ;  how 
the  sun  seems  to  invite  thee  towards  it  with  its  splendour." 

At  words  so  noble  and  piteous  as  these  the  Pagans  them- 
selves,  who  stood  within  hearing,  began  to  weep.  The  Christians 
wept  too,  but  in  voices  more  lowly.  Even  the  king  felt  an  un- 
usual emotion  of  pity ;  but  disdaining  to  give  way  to  it,  turned 
aside  and  withdrew.  The  maiden  alone  partook  not  of  the  com- 
mon grief     She  for  whom  every  body  wept  wept  not  for  herself. 

The  flames  were  now  beginning  to  approach  the  stake,  when 
there  appeared,  coming  through  the  crowd,  a  warrior  of  noble 
mien,  habited  in  the  arms  of  another  country.  The  tiger,  which 
formed  the  crest  of  his  helmet,  drew  all  eyes  to  it,  for  it  was  a 
cognizance  well  known.  They  began  to  think  that  it  was  a  hero- 
ine instead  of  a  hero  which  they  saw,  even  the  famous  Clorinda. 
Nor  did  they  err  in  the  supposition. 

A  despiser  of  feminine  habits  had  Clorinda  been  from  her 
childhood.  She  disdained  to  put  her  hand  to  the  needle  and  the 
distaff.  She  renounced  every  sofl  indulgence,  every  timid  retire- 
ment, thinking  that  virtue  could  be  safe  wherever  it  went  in  its 
own  courageous  heart ;  and  so  she  armed  her  countenance  with 
pride,  and  pleased  herself  with  making  it  stern,  but  not  to  the 
effect  she  looked  for,  for  the  sternness  itself  pleased.  While  yet 
a  child  her  little  right  hand  would  control  the  bit  of  the  charger, 
and  she  wielded  the  sword  and  spear,  and  hardened  her  limbs 
with  wrestling,  and  made  them  supple  for  the  race ;  and  then  as 
she  grew  up,  she  tracked  the  footsteps  of  the  bear  and  lion,  and 
followed  the  trumpet  to  the  wars ;  and  in  those  and  in  the  depths 
of  the  forest  she  seemed  a  wild  creature  to  mankind,  and  a  man 
to  the  wildest  creature.     She  had  now  come  out  of  Persia  to 


OLINDO   AND   SOPHRONIA.  467 


wreak  lier  displeasure  uii  the  Christians,  who  had  already  felt  the 
sharpness  of  her  sword  ;  and  as  she  arrived  near  this  ussoinhhHl 
multitude,  death  was  the  first  thing  that  met  her  eyes,  but  in  a 
shape  so  perplexing,  that  she  looked  narrowly  to  discern  wlmt  ii 
was,  and  then  spurred  her  horse  towards  the  scene  of  action. 
The  crowd  gave  way  as  she  approached,  and  she  halted  us  she 
entered  the  circle  round  the  stake,  and  sat  gazing  on  tlie  youth 
and  maiden.  She  wondered  to  see  the  male  victim  lamenting, 
while  the  female  was  mute.  But  indeed  she  saw  that  he  was 
weeping  not  out  of  grief  but  pity ;  or  at  least,  not  out  of  grief 
for  himself;  and  as  to  the  maiden,  she  observed  her  to  be  so  wrapt 
up  in  the  contemplation  of  the  heavens  at  which  she  was  gazing, 
that  she  appeared  to  have  already  taken  leave  of  earth. 

Pity  touched  the  heart  of  the  Amazon,  and  the  tears  came  into 
her  eyes.  She  felt  sorry  for  both  the  victims,  but  chiefly  for  the 
one  that  said  nothing.  She  turned  to  a  white-headed  man  beside 
her,  and  said,  "  What  is  this  ?  Who  are  these  two  persons  whom 
crime,  or  their  ill-fortune,  has  brought  hither?" 

The  man  answered  her  briefly,  but  to  the  purpose;  and  she 
discerned  at  once  that  both  must  be  innocent.  She  therefore  de- 
termined to  save  them.  She  dismounted,  and  set  the  example  of 
putting  a  stop  to  the  flames,  and  then  said  to  the  oflicers,  "  Let 
nobody  continue  this  work  till  I  have  spoken  to  the  king.  Rest 
assured  he  will  hold  you  guiltless  of  the  delay."  Tlie  olficers 
obeyed,  being  struck  with  lier  air  of  confidence  and  authority  ; 
and  she  went  straigiit  towards  the  king,  who  had  heard  of  her  arri- 
val, and  who  was  coming  to  bid  her  welcome. 

"  I  am  Clorinda,"  she  said.  "  Thou  knowest  me  ?  Then  thou 
knowest,  sir,  one  who  is  desirous  to  defend  the  good  faith  and  the 
king  of  Jerusalem.  I  am  ready  for  any  duty  that  may  be  assigned 
me.  I  fear  not  the  greatest,  nor  do  I  disdain  the  least.  Open 
field  or  walled  city,  no  post  will  come  amiss  to  the  king's  ser- 


vant." 


"  Illustrious  maiden,"  answered  the  king,  "  who  knoweth  not 
Clorinda  ?  What  region  is  there  so  distant  from  Asia,  or  so  far 
away  out  of  the  paths  of  the  sun,  to  which  the  sound  of  thy 
achievements  has  not  arrived  ?  Joined  by  thee  and  by  thy  sword 
I   fear  nothing.     Godfrey,  methinks,  is  too  slow  to  attack  me. 


4G8  OLINDO  AND   SOPHRONIA. 


Dost  thou  ask  to  which  post  thou  shalt  be  appointed  ?  To  the 
greatest !  None  else  become  thee.  Thou  art  lady  and  mistress 
of  the  war.-' 

Clorinda  gave  the  king  thanks  for  his  courtesy,  and  then  re- 
sumed.  "  Strange  is  it,  in  truth,"  she  said,  "  to  ask  my  reward 
before  I  have  earned  it ;  but  confidence  like  this  reassures  mo. 
Grant  me,  for  what  I  propose  to  do  in  the  good  cause,  the  lives  of 
those  two  persons.  I  wave  the  uncertainty  of  their  offence ;  I 
wave  the  presumption  of  innocence  afforded  by  their  own  behaviour. 
I  ask  their  liberation  as  a  favour.  And  yet  it  becomes  me,  at  the 
same  time,  to  confess,  that  1  do  not  believe  the  Christians  to  have 
taken  the  image  out  of  the  mosque.  It  was  an  impious  thing  of 
the  nia<Tician  to  put  it  there.  An  idol  has  no  business  in  a  Mus- 
sulman temple,  much  less  the  idols  of  unbelievers  ;  and  my 
opinion  is,  that  the  miracle  was  the  work  of  Mahomet  himself,  out 
of  scorn  and  hatred  of  the  contamination.  Let  Ismeno  prefer  his 
craft,  if  he  will,  to  the  weapons  of  a  man  ;  but  let  him  not  take 
upon  himself  the  defence  of  a  nation  of  warriors." 

The  warlike  damsel  was  silent :  and  the  kins:,  thoun;h  he  could 
with  difficulty  conquer  his  anger,  yet  did  so,  to  please  his  guest. 
"  They  are  free,"  said  he  ;  "I  can  deny  nothing  to  such  a  peti- 
tioner. Whether  it  be  justice  or  not  to  absolve  them,  absolved 
they  are.  If  they  are  innocent,  I  pronounce  them  so  ;  if  guilty,  I 
concede  their  pardon." 

At'  these  wards  the  youth  and  the  maiden  were  set  free  ;  and 
blissful  indeed  was  the  fortune  of  Olindo  ;  for  love  so  proved  as 
his  awoke  love  in  the  noble  bosom  of  Sophronia,  and  so  he  passed 
from  the  stake  to  the  marriage-altar,  a  husband,  instead  of  a  wretch 
condemned — a  lover  beloved,  instead  of  a  hopeless  adorer. 


TANCRED    AND    CLORINDA. 


Argument. 

The  Mussulman  Amazon  Clorinda,  who  is  beloved  by  the  Christain  chief 
Tancred,  goes  forth  in  disguise  at  night  to  burn  the  batteiing  tower  of  the 
Christian  army.  She  effects  her  purpose :  but,  in  retreating  from  its  discov- 
erers, is  accidentally  shut  out  of  the  gate  through  which  she  had  left  the  city. 
She  makes  her  way  into  the  open  country,  trusting  to  get  in  at  one  of  the  other 
gates ;  but,  having  been  watched  by  Tancred,  who  does  not  know  her  in  the 
armour  in  which  she  is  disguised,  a  combat  ensues  between  them,  in  which  she 
is  slain.  She  requests  baptism  in  her  last  moments,  and  receives  it  from  the 
hands  of  her  despairing  lover. 


TANCRED   AND   CLORINDA. 


The  Christians,  in  their  s'lQcrc  of  Jerusalem,  had  brou<;ht  a  iiii"<« 
rolling  tower  against  the  walls,  from  wjiich  they  battered  and 
commanded  the  city  with  such  deadly  effect  that  the  generous  Am- 
azon Clorinda  resolved  to  go  forth  in  disguise  and  burn  it.  She 
disclosed  her  design  to  the  chieftain  Argantes,  for  the  pur|)ose  of 
recommending  to  him  the  care  of  her  damsels,  in  case  any  mis- 
fortune  should  happen  to  her ;  but  the  warrior,  jealous  of  the 
glory  of  such  an  enterprise,  insisted  on  partaking  it.  The  old 
king,  weeping  for  gratitude,  joyfully  gave  them  leave  ;  and  tlie 
Soldan  of  Egypt,  with  a  generous  emulation,  would  fain  join 
them.  Argantes  was  about  to  give  him  a  disdainful  refusal, 
when  the  king  interposed,  and  persuaded  the  Soldan  to  remain 
behind,  lest  the  city  should  miss  too  many  of  its  best  defrnders  at 
a  time  ;  adding,  that  the  risk  of  sallying  forth  should  be  his,  in 
case  the  burners  of  the  tower  were  pursued  on  their  return.  Ar- 
gantes and  the  Amazon  then  retired  to  prepare  for  the  exploit,  and 
the  magician  Ismeno  compounded  two  balls  of  sulphur  for  the  work 
of  destruction. 

Clorinda  took  off  her  beautiful  helmet,  and  her  surcoat  of  cloth 
of  silver,  and  laid  aside  all  her  haughty  arms,  and  dressed  her- 
self  (unfortunate  omen  !)  in  black  armour  without  polish,  the 
better  to  conceal  herself  from  the  enemy.  Her  faithful  servant, 
the  good  old  eunuch  Arsetes,  who  had  attended  her  from  inf.mcy, 
and  was  now  following  her  about  as  well  as  he  could  with  his 
accustomed  zeal,  anxiously  noticed  what  she  was  doing,  and 
guessing  it  was  for  some  desperate  enterprise,  entreated  her,  by 
his  white  hairs  and  all  the  love  he  had  shewn  her,  to  give  it  up. 
Finding  his  prayers  to  no  purpose,  he  requested  with  great  emo- 
tion that  she  would  give  ear  to  certain  matters  in  her  family  his- 


472  TANCRED   AND   CLORINDA, 


tory,  which  he  at  length  felt  it  his  duty  to  disclose.  "  It  would 
then,"  he  said,  "  be  for  herself  to  judge,  whether  she  would  per- 
sist  in  the  enterprise  or  renounce  it."  Clorinda,  at  this,  looked 
at  the  good  man,  and  listened  with  attention. 

"  Not  long  ago,"  said  he,  "  there  reigned  in  Ethiopia,  and  per- 
haps is  still  reigning,  a  king  named  Senapus,  who  in  common 
with  his  people  professed  the  Christian  religion.  They  are  a 
black,  though  a  handsome  people,  and  the  king  and  his  queen 
were  of  the  same  colour.  The  king  loved  her  dearly,  but  was 
unfortunately  so  jealous,  that  he  concealed  her  from  the  sight  of 
mankind.  Had  it  been  in  his  power,  I  think  he  would  have  hin- 
dered the  very  eyes  of  heaven  from  beholding  her.  The  sweet 
ladv,  however,  was  wdse  and  humble,  and  did  every  thing  she 
could  to  please  him. 

"  I  was  not  a  Christian  myself.  I  was  a  Pagan  slave,  em- 
ployed among  the  women  about  the  queen,  and  making  one  of  her 
special  attendants. 

"  It  happened  that  the  royal  bed-chamber  was  painted  with  the 
story  of  a  holy  knight  saving  a  maiden  from  a  dragon  i^  and  the 
maiden  had  a  face  beautifully  fair,  with  blooming  cheeks.  The 
queen  often  prayed  and  w^ept  before  this  picture  ;  and  it  made  so 
great  an  impression  on  her,  particularly  the  maiden's  face,  that 
when  she  bore  a  child,  she  saw  with  consternation  that  the  in- 
fant's skin  was  of  the  same  fair  colour.     This  child  was  thyself.f 

"  Terrified  with  the  thoughts  of  what  her  husband  would  feel 
at  such  a  sight,  what  a  convincing  proof  he  w^ould  hold  it  of  a 
faith  on  her  part  the  reverse  of  spotless,  she  procured  a  babe  of 
her  own  colour  by  means  of  a  confidant ;  and  before  thou  wert 
baptised  (which  is  a  ceremony  that  takes  place  in  Ethiopia  later 
than  elsewhere)  committed  thee  to  my  care  to  be  brought  up  at  a 
distance.  Who  shall  relate  the  tears  which  thy  mother  poured 
forth,  and  the  sighs  and  sobs  with  w^hich  they  were  interrupted  ? 

*  St.  Gcorse. 

t  Tills  fiction  of  a  white  Ethiop  child  is  taken  from  the  Greek  romance  of 
Iloliodorus,  book  the  fourth.  The  imaginative  principle  on  which  it  is  founded 
is  true  to  physiology,  and  Tasso  had  a  right  to  use  it ;  but  the  particular  and 
excessive  instance  does  not  appear  happy  in  the  eyes  of  a  modern  reader  ac- 
quainted with  the  Ixistor}^  of  albinos. 


TANCRED   AND   CLOIUNDA.  473 

How  many  times,  when  she  tliought  she  luid  given  tliee  the  lust 
embrace,  did  she  not  gatlier  thee  to  her  bosom  once  more  !*  At 
lengtli,  raising  licr  eyes  to  lieaven,  she  said,  '  ()  thou  that  sccst 
into  tlie  hearts  of  mortals,  and  knowest  in  tliis  matter  the  spot- 
lessness  of  mine,  dark  though  it  be  otlierwise  with  frailty  and  with 
sin,  save,  I  pray  thee,  tiiis  innocent  creature  wiio  is  denied  the 
milk  of  its  mother's  breast.  Vouchsafe  that  she  resemble  her 
hapless  parent  in  nothing  but  a  chaste  life.  And  thou,  celestial 
warrior,  that  didst  deliver  the  maiden  out  of  the  serpent's  mouth, 
if  I  have  ever  lit  humble  taper  on  thine  altar,  and  set  before  thee 
olTerings  of  gold  and  incense,  be,  I  implore  thee,  her  advocate. 
Be  her  advocate  to  such  purpose,  that  in  every  turn  of  fortune 
she  may  be  enabled  to  count  on  thy  good  hel}).'  Here  she  ceased, 
tore  to  her  very  heart-strings,  with  a  face  painted  of  the  colour  of 
death  ;  and  I,  weeping  myself,  received  thee,  and  bore  thee  away 
hidden  in  a  sweet  covering  of  flowers  and  leaves. 

"  I  journeyed  with  thee  along  a  forest,  where  a  tiger  came 
upon  us  with  fury  in  its  eyes.  I  betook  me,  alas  !  to  a  tree,  and 
left  thee  lying  on  the  ground,  such  terror  was  in  me  ;  and  the 
horrible  beast  looked  down  upon  thee.  But  it  fell  to  licking  thee 
with  its  dreadful  tongue,  and  thou  didst  smile  to  it,  and  put  thy 
little  hand  to  its  jaws  ;  and  lo  !  it  gave  thee  suck,  being  a  mother 
itself,  and  then,  wonderful  to  relate,  it  returned  into  the  woods, 
leaving  me  to  venture  down  from  the  tree,  and  bear  thee  onward 
to  my  "place  of  refuge.  There,  in  a  little  obscure  cottage,  I  had 
thee  nursed  for  more  than  a  year  ;  till,  feeling  that  I  grew  old,  I 
resolved  to  avail  myself  of  the  riches  the  queen  had  given  me, 
and  go  into  my  own  country,  which  was  Egypt.  I  set  out  for  it 
accordingly,  and  had  to  cross  a  torrent  wiiere  thieves  threatened 
me  on  one  side,  and  the  fierce  water  on  the  other.  I  plunged  in, 
holding  thee  above  the  torrent  with  one  hand,  till  I  came  to  an 
eddy  that  tore  thee  from  me.  I  thought  thee  lost.  Wiiat  was 
my  delight  and  astonishment,  on  reaching  tiie  bank,  to  fmd  that 
the  water  itself  had  tossed  thee  upon  it  in  safety  ! 

♦  The  conceit  is  more  antithetically  put  in  the  original : 

"  Ch'  cfjli  avria  del  candor  che  in  te  si  vcdc 
Argomcntato  in  lei  non  bianca  fcde." 

°,  Canto  xii.  st.  2-1. 


474  TANCRED   AND   CLORINDA. 


"  But  I  had  a  dream  at  night,  which  seemed  to  shew  me  the 
cause  of  thy  good  fortune.  A  warrior  appeared  before  me  with  a 
threatening  countenance,  holding  a  sword  in  my  face,  and  saying 
in  an  imperious  voice,  '  Obey  the  commands  of  the  child's  mother 
and  of  me,  and  baptise  it.  She  is  favoured  of  Heaven,  and  her 
lot  is  in  my  keeping.  It  was  I  that  put  tenderness  in  the  heart 
of  the  wild  beast,  and  even  a  will  to  save  her  in  the  water.  Woe 
to  thee,  if  thou  belie  vest  not  this  vision.     It  is  a  message  from  the 

skies.' 

"  The  spirit  vanished,  and  I  awoke  and  pursued  my  journey  ; 
but  thinkino-  my  own  creed  the  true  one,  and  therefore  concluding 
the  dream  to  be  false,  I  baptised  thee  not ;  I  bred  thee  what  I  was 
myself,  a  Pagan ;  and  thou  didst  grow  up,  and  become  great  and 
wonderful  in  arms,  surpassing  the  deeds  of  men,  and  didst  acquire 
riches  and  lands  ;  and  what  thy  life  has  been  since,  thou  knowest 
as  well  as  I ;  ay,  and  thou  knowest  mine  own  ways  too,  how  I 
have  followed  and  cautiously  waited  on  thee  ever,  being  to  thee 
both  as  a  servant  and  father. 

"  Now  yesterday  morning,  as  I  lay  'heavily  asleep,  in  conse- 
quence of  my  troubled  mind,  the  same  figure  of  the  warrior  made 
its  appearance,  but  with  a  countenance  still  more  threatening,  and 
speaking  in  a  louder  voice.  '  Wretch,'  it  exclaimed,  '  the  hour 
is  approaching  when  Clorinda  shall  end  both  her  life  and  her  be- 
lief. She  is  mine  in  despite  of  thee.  Misery  be  thine.'  With 
these  words  it  darted  away  as  though  it  flew. 

"  Consider  then,  delight  of  my  soul,  what  these  dreams  may 
portend.  They  threaten  thee  terrible  things  ;  for  what  reason  I 
know  not.  Can  it  be,  that  mine  own  faith  is  the  wrong  one,  and 
that  of  thy  parents  the  right  ?  Ah  !  take  thought  at  least,  and 
repress  this  daring  courage.     Lay  aside  these  arms  that  frighten 


me." 


Tears  hindered  the  old  man  from  saying  more.  Clorinda  grew 
thoughtful,  and  felt  something  of  dread,  for  she  had  a  like  kind  of 
dream.  At  length,  however,  cheerfully  looking  up,  she  said,  "  I 
must  follow  the  faith  I  was  bred  in ;  the  faith  which  thou  thyself 
bred'st  me  in,  although  thy  words  would  now  make  me  doubt  it. 
Neither  can  I  give  up  the  enterprise  that  calls  me  forth.     Such 


TANCRED    AND   CLORINDA.  475 


a  withdrawal  is  not  to  be  expected  of  an  honourable  soul.  Death 
may  put  on  the  worst  face  it  pleases.     1  shall  not  retreat." 

The  intrepid  maiden,  however,  did  her  best  to  console  her  good 
friend  ;  but  the  time  having  arrived  for  the  adventure,  she  finally 
bade  iiim  be  of  good  heart,  and  so  left  him. 

Silently,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  Argantes  and  Clorinda 
took  their  way  down  the  hills  of  Jerusalem,  and,  quitting  tiic  gates, 
went  stealthily  towards  the  site  of  the  tower.  But  its  ever-watch- 
ful guards  were  alarmed.  They  demanded  the  wateli-word  ; 
and,  not  receiving  it,  cried  out,  "  To  arms !  to  arms !''  The 
dauntless  adventurers  plunged  forwards  with  their  swords  ;  they 
dashed  aside  every  assailant,  pitched  the  balls  of  sulphur  into  the 
machine,  and  in  a  short  time,  in  the  midst  of  a  daring  conflict,  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  smoke  and  the  flame  arise,  and  the 
whole  tower  blazing  to  its  destruction.  A  terrible  sight  it  was  to  the 
Christians.  Waked  up,  they  came  crowding  to  the  place  ;  and 
the  two  companions,  notwithstanding  their  skill  and  audacity, 
were  compelled  to  make  a  retreat.  The  besieged,  with  the  king 
at  their  head,  now  arrived  also,  crowding  on  the  walls  ;  and  the 
gate  was  opened  to  let  the  adventurers  in.  The  Soldan  issued 
forth  at  the  same  moment  to  cover  the  retreat.  Argantes  was 
forced  through  the  gate  by  Clorinda  in  spite  of  himself ;  and  she, 
but  for  a  luckless  antagonist,  would  have  followed  him  ;  but  a 
soldier  aiming  at  her  a  last  blow,  she  rushed  back  to  give  the 
man  his  deatii  ;  and,  in  the  confusion  of  the  moment,  the  warders, 
believing  her  to  have  entered,  shut  up  the  gate,  and  the  heroine 
was  left  without. 

Behind  Clorinda  was  the  gate — before  and  round  about  her  was 
a  host  of  foes  ;  and  surely  at  that  moment  she  thought  that  her 
life  was  drawinor  to  its  end.  Finding,  however,  that  her  dark 
armour  befriended  her  in  the  tumult,  she  mingled  with  the  enemy 
as  though  she  had  been  one  of  tliemselves,  and  so,  by  degrees, 
picked  her  way  through  the  confusion  caused  by  the  fire.  As  the 
wolf,  with  its  bloody  mouth,  seeks  covert  in  the  woods,  even  so 
Clorinda  got  clear  out  of  the  multitude  into  the  darkness  and  the 
open  country. 

Not,  however,  so  clear,  alas !  but  that  Tancred  perceived  her 
— Tancred,  her  foe  in  creed,  but  her  adoring  lover,  whose  heart 

FART  III.  6 


47fi  TANCRED   AND   CLORINDA. 


she  had  conquered  in  the  midst  of  strife,  and  whose  passion  for 
her  she  knew.  But  now  she  knew  not  that  he  had  seen  her  ;  nor 
did  he,  poor  valiant  wretch,  know  that  the  knight  in  black  armour 
whom  he  pursued  was  a  woman,  and  Clorinda.  Tancred  had 
seen  the  warrior  strike  down  the  assailant  at  the  gate  ;  he  had 
watched  him  as  he  picked  his  way  to  escape  ;  and  Clorinda  now 
heard  the  unknown  Tancred  coming  swiftly  on  horseback  behind 
her  as  she  was  speeding  round  towards  another  gate  in  hopes  of 
being  let  in. 

The  heroine  at  length  turned,  and  said,  "  How  now,  friend  ? — 
what  is  thy  business  ?" 

"  Death  !"  answered  the  pursuer. 

"  Thou  shalt  have  it,"  replied  the  maiden. 

The  knight,  as  his  enemy  was  on  foot,  dismounted,  in  order  to 
render  the  combat  equal ;  and  their  gwords  are  drawn  in  fury, 
and  the  fight  begins.* 

Worthy  of  the  brightest  day-time  was  that  fight — worthy  of  a 
theatre  full  of  valiant  beholders.  Be  not  displeased,  O  Night ! 
that  I  draw  it  out  of  thy  bosom,  and  set  it  in  the  serene  light  of 
renown  :  the  splendour  will  but  the  more  set  off  the  great  shade 
of  thy  darkness. 

No  trial  was  this  of  skill — no  contest  of  warding  and  traversing 
and  taking  heed — no  artful  interchange  of  blows  now  pretended, 
now  given  in  earnest,  now  glancing.  Night-time  and  rage  cast 
asid(3  all  consideration.  The  swords  horribly  clashed  and  ham- 
mered on  one  another.  Not  a  cut  descended  in  vain — not  a  thrust 
was  without  substance.  Shame  and  fury  aggravated  one  another. 
Every  blow  became  fiercer  than  the  last.  They  closed — they 
could  use  their  blades  no  longer ;  they  dashed  the  pummels  of 
their  swords  at  one  another's  faces  ;  they  butted  and  shouldered 
with  helm  and  buckler.  Three  times  the  man  threw  his  arms 
round  the  woman  with  other  embraces  than  those  of  love — three 


*  The  poet  here  compares  his  hero  and  heroine  to  two  jealous  "  bulls,"  no 
happy  eoniparison  certainly. 

"  Vansi  a  ritrovar  non  altrimenti 
Che  duo  tori  gelosi." 

St.  53. 


TANCRED  AND  CLORINDA.  477 


times  they  returned  to  their  swords,  iiiul  cut  and  slushed  one  an- 
other's  bleedino;  bodies  ;  till  at  len<j;th  tiicy  were  obliged  to  hold 
back  for  the  purpose  of  taking  breath. 

Tancred  and  Clorinda  stood  fronting  one  another  in  the  dark 
ness,  leaning  on  their  swords  for  want  of  strength.  The  laststai 
in  the  heavens  was  fading  in  the  tinge  of  dawn  ;  and  Tancred 
saw  that  his  enemy  had  lost  more  blootl  than  himself,  and  it  made 
him  proud  and  joyful.  Oh,  foolish  mind  of  us  humans,  elated  at 
every  fancy  of  success  !  Poor  wretch  !  for  what  dost  thou  re. 
joice  ?  How  sad  will  be  thy  victory  !  ^\'Jlat  a  misery  to  look 
back  upon,  thy  delight  !  Every  drop  of  that  blood  will  be  paid 
for  with  worlds  of  tears  ! 

Dimly  thus  looking  at  one  another  stood  the  combatants,  bleed- 
ing a  while  in  peace.  At  length  Tancred,  who  wished  to  know 
his  antagonist,  said,  "  It  hath  been  no  good  fortune  of  ours  to  be 
compelled  thus  to  fight  where  nobody  can  behold  us  ;  but  we  have 
at  least  become  acquainted  with  the  good  swords  of  one  another. 
Let  me  request,  therefore  (if  to  request  any  thing  at  such  a  time 
be  not  unbecoming),  that  I  may  be  no  stranger  to  thy  name. 
Permit  me  to  learn,  whatever  be  the  result,  who  it  is  that  shall 
honour  my  death  or  my  victory." 

'•  I  am  not  accustomed,"  answered  the  fierce  maiden,  "  to  dis- 
close who  I  am  ;  nor  shall  I  disclose  it  now.  SufBce  to  hear  that 
thou  seest  before  thee  one  of  the  burners  of  the  tower." 

Tancred  was  exasperated  at  this  discovery.  "  In  an  evil  mo- 
ment," cried  he,  "  hast  thou  said  it.  Thy  silence  and  thy  speech 
alike  disgust  me." 

Into  the  combat  again  they  dash,  feeble  as  they  were.  Fero- 
cious indeed  is  the  strife  in  which  skill  is  not  thought  of,  and 
strength  itself  is  dead  ;  in  which  valour  rages  instead  of  contends, 
and  feebleness  becomes  hate  and  fury.  Oh,  the  gates  of  blood 
that  were  set  open  in  wounds  upon  wounds  !  If  life  itself  did 
not  come  pouring  forth,  it  was  only  because  scorn  withheld  it. 

As  in  the  yEgean  Sea,  when  the  south  and  north  winds  have 
lost  the  violence  of  their  strength,  the  billows  do  not  subside  nev- 
ertheless, but  retain  the  noise  and  magnitude  of  their  first  motion  ; 
so  the   continued   impulse  of  the   combatants  carried   them  still 


478  TANCRED  AND  CLORINDA. 


against  one  another,  hurling  them  into  mutual  injury,  though  they 
had  scarcely  life  in  their  bodies.* 

And  now  the  fatal  hour  has  come  when  Clorinda  must  die. 
The  sword  of  Tancred  is  in  her  bosom  to  the  very  hilt.  The 
stomacher  under  the  cuirass  which  enclosed  it  is  filled  with  a  hot 
flood.  Her  legs  give  way  beneath  her.  She  falls — she  feels  that 
she  is  departing.  The  conqueror,  with  a  still  threatening  coun- 
tenance, prepares  to  follow  up  his  victory,  and  treads  on  her  as 
she  lies. 

But  a  new  spirit  had  come  upon  her — the  spirit  which  called 
the  beloved  of  Heaven  to  itself;  and,  speaking  in  a  sorrowing 
voice,  she  thus  uttered  her  last  words : 

"  My  friend,  thou  hast  conquered — I  forgive  thee.  Forgive 
thou  me,  not  for  my  body's  sake,  which  fears  nothing,  but  for  the 
sake,  alas  !  of  my  soul.     Baptise  me,  I  beseech  thee." 

There  was  something  in  the  voice,  as  the  dying  person  spake 
these  words,  that  went,  he  knew  not  why,  to  the  heart  of  Tan- 
cred. The  tears  forced  themselves  into  his  eyes.  Not  far  off 
there  was  a  little  stream,  and  the  conqueror  went  to  it  and  filled 
his  helmet ;  and  returning,  prepared  for  the  pious  office  by  un- 
lacing his  adversary's  helmet.  His  hands  trembled  when  he  first 
beheld  the  forehead,  though  he  did  not  yet  know  it ;  but  when  the 
vizor  was  all  down,  and  the  face  disclosed,  he  remained  without 
speech  and  motion. 

Oh,  the  sight ! — Oh,  the  recognition  ! 

He  did  not  die.  He  summoned  up  all  the  powers  within  him 
to  support  his  heart  for  that  moment.  He  resolved  to  hold  up  his 
duty  above  his  misery,  and  give  life  with  the  sweet  water  to  her 
whom  he  had  slain  with  sword.  He  dipped  his  fingers  in  it,  and 
marked  her  forehead  with  the  cross,  and   repeated  the  words  of 

♦  "  Qual  r  alto  Egco,  perche  Aquilone  o  Noto 
Cessi,  che  tutto  prima  il  volse  e  scosse, 
Non  s'  accheta  perb,  ma  '1  suono  e  '1  moto 

Ritien  de  1'  onde  anco  agitate  e  grosse ; 
Tal,  sc  ben  manca  in  lor  col  san^ue  vote 

Quel  ^  igor  che  le  braccia  ai  colpi  mosse, 
Serbano  ancor  1'  impcto  primo,  e  vanno 
Da  quel  sospinti  a  giunger  danno  a  danno." 

St.  63. 


TANCRED  AMD  CLOKINDA.  479 


the  sacred  ollicc  ;  and  while  he  was  ropcatiii«(  tlioin,  tin;  suHbrer 
changed  countenance  for  joy,  and  sniiK'd,  and  seemed  to  say,  in 
the  cheerfuhiess  of  her  departure,  "  The  heavens  are  oj)etiin^ — I 
go  in  peace."  A  paleness  and  a  shade  togetlier  then  came  over 
her  countenance,  as  if  lilies  had  heen  mixed  with  violets.  She 
looked  up  at  heaven,  and  heaven  itself  might  he  thought  for  very 
tenderness  to  be  looking  at  her  ;  and  then  she  raised  a  little  her 
hand  towards  that  of  the  knight  (for  she  could  not  speak),  and  so 
gave  it  him  in  sign  of  goodwill  ;  and  with  his  pressure  of  it  her 
soul  passed  away,  and  she  seemed  asleep. 

But  Tancred  no  sooner  beheld  her  dead  than  all  the  strength 
of  mind  whicii  he  had  summoned  up  to  support  him  fell  flat  on 
the  instant.  He  would  here  give  way  to  the  most  frantic  outcries; 
but  life  and  speech  seemed  to  be  shut  up  in  one  point  in  his  heart ; 
despair  seized  him  like  death,  and  he  fell  senseless  beside  her  : 
and  surely  he  would  have  died  indeed,  iiad  not  a  party  of  his 
countrymen  happened  to  come  up.  They  were  looking  for  wa- 
ter, and  had  found  it,  and  they  discovered  the  bodies  at  the  same 
time.  The  leader  knew  Tancred  by  his  arms.  The  beautiful  body 
of  Clorinda,  though  he  deemed  her  a  Pagan,  he  would  not  leave 
exposed  to  the  wolves  ;  and  so  he  directed  both  to  be  carried  to 
the  pavilion  of  Tancred,  and  there  placed  in  separate  chambers. 

Dreadful  was  the  waking  of  Tancred — not  for  the  solemn 
whispering  before  him — not  for  his  aching  wounds,  terrible  as 
they  were,  but  for  the  agony  of  the  recollection  that  rushed  upon 
him.  He  would  have  gone  staggering  out  of  the  pavilion  to  seek 
the  remains  of  his  Clorinda,  and  save  them  from  the  wolves  ;  but 
his  friends  told  him  they  were  at  hand,  under  the  curtain  of  his 
own  dwelling.  A  gleam  of  pleasure  shot  across  his  face,  and  he 
stacrcered  into  the  chamber  ;  but  when  he  beheld  the  body  gored 
with  his  own  hand,  and  the  face,  calm  indeed,  but  calm  like  a 
pale  night  w  ithout  stars,  he  trembled  so,  that  lie  would  have  sunk 
to  the  ground  but  for  his  supporters. 

"  O  sweet  face  !"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  thou  may'st  be  calm  now, 
but  what  is  to  calm  me  ?  O  hand  that  was  held  up  to  me  in  sign 
of  peace  and  forgiveness  !  to  what  have  I  brought  thee  ?  Wretch 
that  I  am,  I  do  not  even  weep.  Mine  eyes  are  as  cruel  as  my 
hands.     My  blood  shall  be  shed  instead." 


480  TANCRED   AND   CLORINDA. 


And  with  these  words  he  began  tearing  off  the  bandages  which 
the  surgeons  had  put  upon  him  ;  and  he  thrust  his  fingers  into 
his  wounds,  and  would  have  slain  himself  thus  outright,  had  not 
the  pain  made  him  faint  away. 

He  was  then  taken  back  to  his  own  chamber.  Godfrey  came 
in  the  mean  time  with  the  venerable  hermit  Peter  ;  and  when  the 
sufferer  awoke,  they  addressed  him  in  kind  words,  which  even 
his  impatience  respected  ;  but  it  was  not  to  be  calmed  till  the 
preacher  put  on  the  terrors  of  religion,  remonstrating  with  him  as 
an  ingrate  to  God,  and  threatening  him  with  the  doom  of  a  sinner. 
The  tears  then  crept  into  his  eyes,  and  he  tried  to  be  patient,  and 
in  some  degree  was  so — only  breaking  out  ever  and  anon,  now 
with  exclamations  of  horror,  and  now  with  fond  lamentations, 
talking  as  if  with  the  shade  of  his  beloved. 

Thus  lay  Tancred  for  days  together,  ever  moaning  and  woful ; 
till,  falling  asleep  one  night  towards  the  dawn,  the  shade  of  Clo- 
rinda  did  indeed  appear  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and  clad  in 
light  and  joy.  She  seemed  to  stoop  and  wipe  the  tears  from  his 
eyes  ;  and  then  said,  "  Behold  how  happy  I  am.  Behold  me,  O 
beloved  friend,  and  see  how  happy,  and  bright,  and  beautiful  I 
am ;  and  consider  that  it  is  all  owing  to  thyself.  'Twas  thou 
that  took'st  me  put  of  the  false  path,  and  made  me  worthy  of  ad- 
mission among  saints  and  angels.  There,  in  heaven,  I  love  and 
rejoice  ;  and  there  I  look  to  see  thee  in  thine  appointed  time  ; 
after  which  we  shall  both  love  the  great  God  and  one  another  for 
ever  and  ever.  Be  faithful,  and  command  thyself,  and  look  to 
the  end  ;  for,  lo  !  as  far  as  it  is  permitted  to  a  blessed  spirit  to 
love  mortality,  even  now  I  love  thee  !" 

With  these  words  the  eyes  of  the  vision  grew  bright  beyond 
mortal  beauty ;  and  then  it  turned  and  was  hidden  in  the  depth 
of  its  radiance,  and  disappeared. 

Tancred  slept  a  quiet  sleep;  and  when  he  awoke  he  gave 
himself  patiently  up  to  the  will  of  the  physician ;  and  the  re- 
mains  of  Clorinda  were  gathered  into  a  noble  tomb.* 

*  This  tomb,  Tancred  says,  in  an  address  which  he  makes  to  it,  "  has  his 
flaiucs  inside  of  it,  and  his  tears  without." 

"  Che  dcntro  hai  le  mie  fiamme,  e  fuori  il  pianto."         St.  96. 
I  ain  loath  to  disturb  the  effect  of  a  really  touching  story ;  but  if  I  do  not  occa- 
sionally give  mstanccs  of  these  conceits,  my  translations  will  belie  my  criticism. 


ic!i 


RINALDO  AND  ARMIDA: 


WITH  THE 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ENCHANTED  FOREST. 


Argument. 

Part  I. — Satan  assembles  the  fiends  in  council  to  consider  the  best  means 
of  opposing  the  Christians.  Armida,  the  niece  of  the  wizard  king  of  Damas- 
cus, is  incited  to  go  to  their  camp  under  false  pretences,  and  endeavour  to  'f' 
weaken  it ;  which  she  does  by  seducing  away  many  of  the  knights,  and  sowing  fr( 
a  discord  which  ends  in  the  flight  of  Rinaldo.  L 

Part  II.^Arniida,  after  making  the  knights  feel  the  power  of  her  magic,       in 
dismisses  them  bound  prisoners  for  Damascus.     They  are  rescued  on  their  way 
by  Rinaldo.     Armida  pursues  him  in  wrath,  but  falls  in  love  with  him. 

Part  III. — The  magician  Ismeno  succeeds  in  frightening  the  Christians  in        , 
their  attempt  to  cut  wood  from  the  enchanted  forest.     Rinaldo  is  sent  for  as  the 
person  fated  to  undo  the  enchantment. 

Part  IV. — Rinaldo  and  Armida,  in  love  with  each  other,  pass  their  time  in       ^ 
a  bower  of  bliss.     He  is  fetched  away  by  two  knights,  and  leaves  her  in  despair.       01 

Part  V. — Rinaldo  disenchants  the  forest,  and  has  the  chief  hand  in  the 
taking  of  Jerusalem.     He  meets  and  reconciles  Armida. 

tl 

t! 


RINALDO   AND   ARMIDA,  ETC. 


PART  THE   FIRST. 

ARMIDA  IN  THE  CHRISTIAN  CAMP. 

The  Christians  had  now  commenced  their  attack  on  Jerusa- 
lem, and  brought  a  great  rolling  tower  against  the  walls,  built 
from  the  wood  of  a  forest  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  when  the  Ma- 
lignant Spirit,  who  has  never  ceased  his  war  with  Heaven,  cast 
in  his  mind  how  he  might  best  defeat  their  purpose.  It  was  ne- 
cessary to  divide  their  forces  ;  to  destroy  their  tower  ;  to  hinder 
them  from  building  another ;  and  to  make  one  final  triumphant 
effort  against  the  whole  progress  of  their  arms. 

Forgetting  how  the  right  arm  of  God  could  launch  its  thunder- 
bolts, the  Fiend  accordingly  seated  himself  on  his  throne,  and 
ordered  his  powers  to  be  brouglit  together. 

The  Tartarean  trumpet,  with  its  hoarse  voice,  called  up  the 
dwellers  in  everlasting  darkness.  The  huge  black  caverns 
trembled  to  their  depths,  and  the  blind  air  rebellowed  with  the 
thunder.  The  bolt  does  not  break  forth  so  horribly  when  it 
comes  bursting  after  the  flash  out  of  the  heavens ;  nor  had  the 
world  before  ever  trembled  with  such  an  earthquake.* 

*  "  Chiaina  o-H  abitator'  de  1'  ombre  etorne 
II  rauco  suon  de  la  tartarca  tromba. 
Treman  le  spaziose  atre  cavcrne, 

E  1  'aer  cieco  a  quel  romor  riniboinba. 
N6  si  stridendo  mai  da  lo  suporne 

Region!  del  cielo  il  folgor  jjiomba  : 
N6  s\  sTossa  <riii  mai  troma  la  terra, 
Quando  i  vapori  in  sen  gravida  serra." 

Canto  iv.  at  3. 

The  trump  of  Tartarus,  with  iron  roar. 

Called  to  the  dwellers  the  black  regions  under : 
6* 


484  RINALDO   AND   ARMIDA. 


The  gods  of  the  abyss  came  thronging  up  on  all  sides  through 
the  gates ; — terrible-looking  beings  with  unaccountable  aspects, 
dispensers  of  death  and  horror  with  their  eyes  ; — some  stamping 
with  hoofs,  some  rolling  on  enormous  spires, — their  faces  human, 
their  hair  serpents.  There  were  thousands  of  shameless  Har- 
pies, of  pallid  Gorgons,  of  barking  Scyllas,  of  Chimeras  that 
vomited  ashes,  and  of  monsters  never  before  heard  or  thought  of, 
with  perverse  aspects  all  mixed  up  in  one. 

The  Power  of  Evil  sat  looking  down  upon  them,  huger  than  a 
rock  in  the  sea,  or  an  alp  with  forked  summits.  A  certain  hor- 
rible majesty  augmented  the  terrors  of  his  aspect.  His  eyes 
reddened  ;  his  poisonous  look  hung  in  the  air  like  a  comet ;  the 
mouth,  as  it  opened  in  the  midst  of  clouds  of  beard,  seemed  an 
abyss  of  darkness  and  blood  ;  and  out  of  it,  as  from  a  volcano, 
issued  fires,  and  vapours,  and  disgust. 

Satan  laid  forth  to  his  dreadful  hearers  his  old  quarrel  with 
Heaven,  and  its  new  threats  of  an  extension  of  its  empire.  Chris- 
tendom was  to  be  brought  into  Asia  ;  their  worshippers  were  to 
perish ;  souls  were  to  be  rescued  from  their  devices,  and  Satan's 

Hell  through  its  caverns  trembled  to  the  core, 

And  the  bUnd  air  rebellowed  to  the  thunder : 
Never  yet  fiery  bolt  more  fiercely  tore 

The  crashing  firmament,  like  rocks,  asunder ; 
Nor  with  so  huge  a  shudder  earth's  foundations 
Quake  to  their  mighty  heart,  lifting  the  nations. 
The  tone  of  this  stanza  was  caught  from  a  fine  one  in  Politian,  the  fourth 
verse  of  which  (about  the  cataracts  of  the  Nile)  has  the  grandest  "  echo  to  the 
sense"  which  I  have  met  with  in  Italian  poetry : 

"  Con  tal  romor,  qualor  1'  aer  di  scorda, 

Di  Giove  il  foco  d'  alta  nube  piomba : 
Con  tal  tumulto,  onde  la  gente  assorda, 

Da  r  alte  cataratte  il  Nil  rimbomba : 
Con  tal  orror  del  Latin  sangue  inororda 

Son6  Megera  la  tartarea  tromba." 

Fragment  on  the  Jousting  of  Guiliano  de'  Medici. 
Such  is  the  noise,  when  through  his  cloudy  floor 

The  bolt  of  Jove  falls  on  the  pale  world  under ; 
So  shakes  the  land  where  Nile  with  deafening  roar 

Plunges  his  clattering  cataracts  in  thunder; 
Horribly  so,  through  Latium's  realm  of  yore,  ,, 

The  trump  of  Tartarus  blew  ghastly  wonder. 


' 


RINALDO   AND   ARMIDA.  .^S'j 


kingdom  on  earth  put  an  end  to.  He  exhorted  them  therefore  to 
issue  forth  once  for  all  and  prevent  this  fatal  consummation  hy 
the  destruction  of  the  Christian  forces.  Some  of  the  leaders  he 
bade  them  do  their  best  to  disperse,  others  to  slay,  others  to  draw 
into  effeminate  pleasures,  into  rebellion,  into  the  ruin  of  the  wiiole 
camp,  so  that  not  a  vestige  might  remain  of  its  existence. 

The  assembly  broke  up  with  the  noise  of  hurricanes.  They 
issued  forth  to  look  once  more  upon  the  stars,  and  to  sow  seeds 
every  where  of  destruction  to  the  Christians.  Satan  himself 
followed  them,  and  entered  the  heart  of  Hydraotes,  king  of  Da- 
mascus. 

Hydraotes  was  a  wizard  as  well  as  a  king,  and  held  the  Chris- 
tians  in  abhorrence.  But  he  was  wise  enough  to  respect  their 
valour ;  and  with  Satan's  help  he  discerned  the  likeliest  way  to 
counteract  it.  He  had  a  niece,  who  was  the  greatest  beauty  of 
the  age.  He  had  taught  her  his  art :  and  he  concluded,  that  the 
enchantments  of  beauty  and  magic  united  would  prove  irresist- 
ible. He,  therefore,  disclosed  to  her  his  object.  He  told  her 
that  every  artifice  was  lawful,  when  the  intention  was  to  serve 
one's  country  and  one's  faith  ;  and  he  conjured  her  to  do  her  ut- 
most to  separate  Godfrey  himself  from  his  army,  or  in  the  event 
of  that  not  being  possible,  to  bring  away  as  many  as  she  could  of 
his  noblest  captains. 

Armida  (for  that  was  her  name),  proud  of  her  beauty,  and  of 
the  unusual  arts  that  she  had  acquired,  took  her  way  the  same 
evening,  alone,  and  by  the  most  sequestered  paths, — a  female  in 
gown  and  tresses  issuing  forth  to  conquer  an  army.* 

She  had  not  travelled  many  days  ere  she  came  in  sigiit  of  the 
Christian  camp,  the  outskirts  of  which  she  entered  immediately. 
The  Frenchmen  all  flocked  to  see  her,  wondering  who  she  was, 
and  who  could  have  sent  them  so  lovely  a  messenger.  Armida 
passed  onwards,  not  with  a  misgiving  air,  not  with  an  unalluring 

♦  "  La  bella  Arniida,  di  sua  forma  altiera, 
E  de'  doni  del  sesso  e  de  1'  etate, 
L'  intipresa  prende :  e  in  su  la  prima  sera 

Parte,  e  tiene  sol  vie  chluse  e  celate  : 
E  'n  treccia  e  'n  gonna  femminile  spera 
Vincer  popoli  invitti  e  schierc  armate." 

Id.  St.  27. 


48G  RINALDO  AND   ARMIDA. 


and  yet  not  with  an  immodest  one.  Her  golden  tresses  she  suf- 
fered at  one  moment  to  escape  from  under  veil,  and  at  another 
gathered  them  again  within  it.  Her  rosy  mouth  breathed  sim- 
plicity  as  well  as  voluptuousness.  Her  bosom  was  so  artfully 
draped,  as  to  let  itself  be  discerned  without  seeming  to  intend  it. 
And  thus  she  passed  along,  surprising  and  transporting  every 
body.  Coming  at  length  among  the  tents  of  the  officers,  she 
requested  to  be  shewn  that  of  the  leader ;  and  Eustace  eagerly 
stepped  forward  to  conduct  her. 

Eustace  was  the  younger  brother  of  Godfrey.  He  had  all  the 
ardour  of  his  time  of  life,  and  the  gallantry,  in  every  respect,  of 
a  Frenchman.  After  paying  her  a  profusion  of  compliments, 
and  learning  that  she  was  a  fugitive  in  distress,  he  promised  her 
every  thing  which  his  brother's  authority  and  his  own  sword 
could  do  for  her ;  and  so  led  her  into  Godfrey's  presence. 

The  pretended  fugitive  made  a  lowly  obeisance,  and  then  stood 
mute  and  blushing,  till  the  general  re-assured  her.  She  then  told 
him,  that  she  was  the  rightful  queen  of  Damascus,  whose  throne 
was  usurped  by  an  uncle  ;  that  her  uncle  sought  her  death,  from 
which  she  had  been  saved  by  the  man  who  was  bribed  to  inflict 
it ;  and  that  although  her  creed  was  Mahometan,  she  had  brought 
her  mind  to  conclude,  that  so  noble  an  enemy  as  Godfrey  would 
take  pity  on  her  condition,  and  permit  some  of  his  captains  to 
aid  the  secret  wishes  of  her  people,  and  seat  her  on  the  throne. 
Ten  selected  chiefs  would  overcome,  she  said,  all  opposition  ; 
and  she  promised  in  return  to  become  his  grateful  and  faithful 
vassal. 

The  leader  of  the  Christian  army  sat  a  while  in  deliberation. 
His  heart  was  inclined  to  befriend  the  lady,  but  his  prudence  was 
afraid  of  a  Pagan  artifice  ;  and  he  thought  it  did  not  become  his 
piety  to  turn  aside  from  the  great  enterprise  which  God  had  fa- 
voured. He  therefore  gave  her  a  gentle  refusal  ;  but  added,  that 
should  success  attend  him,  and  Jerusalem  be  taken,  he  would  in- 
stantly do  what  she  required. 

Armida  looked  down,  and  wept.  A  mixture  of  indignation 
and  despair  appeared  to  seize  her ;  and  exclaiming  that  she  had 
no  longer  a  wish  to  live,  she  accused,  she  said,  not  a  heart  so  re- 
nowned for  generosity  as  his,  but  Heaven  itself  which  had  steeled 


RINALDO   AND    AIl.-\nnA.  i87 

it  against  her.  Wliat  was  slie  to  do?  She  could  not  remain  in 
his  camp.  Vir^nn  modesty  fcjrbade  lluit.  She  waa  not  safe  out 
of  its  bounds.  Her  enemies  tracivcd  lier  steps.  It  was  lit  that 
she  should  die  by  her  own  hand. 

An  indignant  pity  took  possession  of  the  French  oflicers.  They 
wondered  how  Godfrey  could  resist  the  prayers  of  a  creature  so 
beautiful;  and  Eustace  openly,  though  respectfully,  remonstrated. 
He  said,  that  if  ten  of  the  best  of  his  captains  could  not  be  spared, 
ten  others  might ;  that  it  especially  became  the  Christian  to  re- 
dress the  wrongs  of  the  innocent  ;  that  the  death  of  a  tyrant,  in- 
stead  of  beins:  a  deviation  from  tiie  service  of  God,-  was  one  of 
the  directest  means  of  performing  it  ;  and  that  France  would 
never  endure  to  hear,  that  a  lady  had  applied  to  her  knights  for 
assistance,  and  found  her  suit  refused. 

A  murmur  of  approbation  followed  the  words  of  Eustace.  His 
companions  pressed  nearer  to  the  general,  and  warmly  urged  his 
request. 

Godfrey  assented  to  a  wish  expressed  by  so  many,  but  not  with 
perfect  good  will.  He  bade  them  remember,  that  the  measure 
was  the  result  of  their  own  opinion,  not  his ;  and  concluded  by 
requesting  them  at  all  events,  for  his  sake,  to  moderate  the  excess 
of  their  confidence.  The  transported  warriors  had  scarcely  any 
answer  to  make  but  that  of  congratulations  to  the  lady.  She,  on 
her  side,  while  mischief  was  rejoicing  in  her  heart,  first  expressed 
her  gratitude  to  all  in  words  intermixed  with  smiles  and  tears, 
and  then  carried  herself  towards  every  one  in  particular  in  the 
manner  which  she  thought  most  fitted  to  ensnare.  She  behaved 
to  this  person  with  cordiality,  to  that  with  comparative  reserve  ; 
to  one  with  phrases  only,  to  another  with  looks  besides,  and  inti- 
mations of  secret  preference.  The  ardour  of  some  she  repressed, 
but  still  in  a  manner  to  rekindle  it.  To  others  she  was  all  gaiety 
and  attraction  ;  and  when  others  again  had  their  eyes  upon  her, 
she  would  fall  into  fits  of  absence,  and  shed  tears,  as  if  in  sfcret, 
and  then  look  up  suddenly  and  laugh,  and  put  on  a  cheerful  pa- 
tience.    And  then  she  drew  them  all  into  her  net. 

Yet  none  of  all  these  men  confessed  that  passion  impelled  them  ; 
every  body  laid  his  enthusiasm  to  the  account  of  honour — Eus- 
tace  particularly,  because  he  was  most  in  love.     He  was  also 


488  RINALDO  AND  ARMIDA. 


ve 


.ry  jealous,  especially  of  the  heroical  Rinaldo,  Prince  of  Este  ; 
and  as  the  squadron  of  horse  to  which  they  both  belonged— the 
greatest  in  the  army — had  lately  been  deprived  of  its  chief,  Eus- 
tace cast  in  his  mind  how  he  might  keep  Rinaldo  from  going 
with  Armida,  and  at  the  same  time  secure  his  own  attendance  on 
her,  by  advancing  him  to  the  vacant  post.  He  offered  his  ser- 
vices to  Rinaldo  for  the  purpose,  not  without  such  emotion  as  let 
the  hero  into  his  secret ;  but  as  the  latter  had  no  desire  to  wait 
on  the  lady,  he  smilingly  assented,  agreeing  at  the  same  time  to 
assist  the  wishes  of  the  lover.  The  emissaries  of  Satan,  however, 
were  at  work  in  all  quarters.  If  Eustace  was  jealous  of  Rinaldo 
as  a  rival  in  love,  Gernando,  Prince  of  Norway,  another  of  the 
squadron  that  had  lost  its  chief,  was  no  less  so  of  his  gallantry  in 
war,  and  of  his  qualifications  for  being  his  commander.  Ger- 
nando was  a  haughty  barbarian,  who  thought  that  every  sort  of 
pre-eminence  was  confined  to  princes  of  blood  royal.  He  heard 
of  the  proposal  of  Eustace  with  a  disgust  that  broke  into  the  un- 
worthiest  expressions.  He  even  vented  it  in  public,  in  the  open 
part  of  the  camp,  when  Rinaldo  was  standing  at  no  great  dis- 
tance ;  and  the  words  coming  to  the  hero's  ears,  and  breaking 
down  the  tranquillity  of  his  contempt,  the  latter  darted  towards 
him,  sword  in  hand,  and  defied  him  to  single  combat.  Gernando 
beheld  death  before  him,  but  made  a  show  of  valour,  and  stood 
on  his  defence.  A  thousand  swords  leaped  forth  to  back  him, 
mixed  with  as  many  voices ;  and  half  the  camp  of  Godfrey  tried 
to  withhold  the  impetuous  youth  v/ho  was  for  deciding  his  quarrel 
without  the  general's  leave.  But  the  hero's  transport  was  not  to 
be  stopped  ;  he  dashed  through  them  all,  forced  the  Norwegian 
to  encounter  him,  and  after  a  storm  of  blows  that  dazzled  the 
man's  eyes  and  took  away  his  senses,  ran  his  sword  thrice 
through  the  prince's  body.  He  then  sent  the  blade  into  his 
sheath  reeking  as  it  was,  and,  taking  his  way  back  to  his  tent, 
reposed  in  the  calmness  of  his  triumph. 

The  victor  had  scarcely  gone  when  the  general  arrived  on  the 
ground,  where  he  beheld  the  slain  Prince  of  Norway  with  acute 
feelings  of  regix^t.  What  was  to  become  of  his  army,  if  the 
leaders  thus  quarrelled  among  themselves,  and  his  authority  was 
set  at  nought  ?     The  friends  of  the  slain  man  increased  his  an- 


RINALDO    AM)    ARMIDA. 


ger  against  Riiuildo,  by  charging  liim  with  all  the  hlaino  of  tho 
catastrophe.  The  hero's  friend,  Tancred,  assuaged  it  somewhat 
by  disclosing  the  truth,  and  then  ventured  to  ask  pardon  for  the 
outbreak.  But  the  wise  coinniander  shewed  so  nianv  rensf)n.s 
why  such  an  otience  could  not  be  overlooked,  and  his  countenance 
expressed  such  a  determination  to  resent  it,  that  the  gallant  youth 
hastened  secretly  to  his  friend,  and  urged  him  to  quit  the  camp 
till  his  services  should  be  needed.  Rinaldo  at  first  called  for  his 
arms,  and  was  bent  on  resisting  every  body  who  came  to  seize 
him,  had  it  been  even  Godfrey  himself;  but  Tancred  shewing 
him  how  unjust  that  would  be,  and  how  fatal  to  the  Christian 
cause,  he  consented  with  an  ill  grace  to  depart.  He  would  take 
nobody  w  ith  him  but  two  squires  ;  and  he  went  away  raging  with 
a  sense  of  ill  requital  for  his  achievements,  but  resolving  to  prove 
their  value  by  destroying  every  infidel  prince  that  he  could 
encounter. 

Armida  now  tried  in  vain  to  make  an  impression  on  the  heart 
of  Godfrey.  He  was  insensible  to  all  her  devices  ;  but  she  suc- 
ceeded in  quitting  the  camp  with  her  ten  champions.  Lots  were 
drawn  to  determine  who  should  go  ;  and  all  who  failed  to  be  in 
the  list — Eustace  among  them — were  so  jealous  of  the  rest,  that 
at  night-time,  after  the  others  had  been  long  on  the  road,  they  set 
out  to  overtake  them,  each  by  himself,  and  all  in  violation  of  their 
soldierly  words.  The  ten  opposed  them  as  they  came  up,  but  to 
no  purpose.  Armida  reconciled  them  all  in  appearance,  by 
feigning  to  be  devoted  to  each  in  secret ;  and  thus  she  rode  on 
with  them  many  a  mile,  till  she  came  to  a  castle  on  the  Dead  Sea, 
where  she  was  accustomed  to  practise  her  unfriendliest  arts. 

Meanwhile  news  came  to  Godfrey  that  his  Egyptian  enemies 
were  at  hand  with  a  great  fleet,  and  that  his  caravan  of  provisions 
had  been  taken  by  the  robbers  of  the  desert.  His  army  was  thus 
threatened  with  ruin  from  desertion,  starvation,  and  the  sword. 
He  maintained  a  calm  and  even  a  cheerful  countenance  ;  but  in 
his  thoughts  he  had  great  anxiety. 


490  AINALDO  AND   ARMIDA. 


PART    THE   SECOND. 


/ 


ARMIDA'S   WRATH   AND   LOVE   WITH   RINALDO. 

The  castle  to  which  Armida  took  her  prisoners  occupied  an 
island  close  to  the  shore  in  the  loathsome  Dead  Sea.  They  en- 
tered it  by  means  of  a  narrow  bridge ;  but  if  their  pity  had  been 
great  at  seeing  her  forced  to  take  refuge  in  a  spot  so  desolate  and 
repulsive,  how  pleasingly  was  it  changed  into  as  great  a  surprise 
at  finding  a  totally  different  region  within  the  walls  !  The  gar- 
dens were  extensive  and  lovely  ;  the  rivulets  and  fountains  as 
sweet  as  the  flowery  thickets  they  watered  ;  the  breezes  refresh- 
ing, the  skies  of  a  sapphire  blue,  and  the  birds  were  singing  round 
about  them  in  the  trees.  Her  riches  astonished  them  no  less. 
The  side  of  the  castle  that  looked  on  the  gardens  was  all  marble 
and  gold  ;  a  banquet  awaited  them  beside  a  water  on  a  shady 
lawn,  consisting  of  the  exquisitest  viands  on  the  costliest  plate ;  and 
a  hundred  beautiful  maidens  attended  them  while  they  feasted. 
The  enchantress  was  all  smiles  and  delight ;  and  such  was  her 
art,  that  although  she  bestowed  no  favour  on  any  body  beyond 
his  banquet  and  his  hopes,  every  body  thought  himself  the  favour- 
ed  lover. 

But  no  sooner  was  the  feast  over,  than  the  greatest  and  worst 
of  their  astonishments  ensued.  The  lady  quitted  them,  saying 
she  should  return  presently.  She  did  so  with  a  troubled  and  un- 
friendly  countenance,  having  a  book  in  one  hand,  and  a  little 
wand  in  the  other.  She  read  in  the  book  in  a  low  voice,  and 
while  she  was  reading  shook  the  little  wand ;  and  the  guests,  al- 
tering  in  every  part  of  their  being,  and  shrifiking  into  minute 
bodies,  felt  an  inclination,  which  they  obeyed,  to  plunge  into  the 
water  beside  them.  They  were  fish.  In  a  little  while  they 
were  again  men,  looking  her  in  the  face  with  dread  and  amaze- 


RINALDU   AiND   AK3UDA.  4y| 


ment.  She  had  restored  them  to  Uu-ir  Immunity.  She  regarded 
them  with  a  severe  countenance,  and  said  :  ^'  Vou  have  tu-sted 
my  power  ;  I  can  exercise  it  far  ir.ore  terribly — can  put  you  in 
dungeons  for  ever  — can  turn  you  to  roots  in  the  ground— to 
Hints  witliin  the  rock.  Beware  of  my  wratli,  and  pKuise  nje  • 
quit  your  faiths  for  mine,  and  fight  against  the  blasphemer 
Godfrey." 

Every  Christian  but  one  rejected  her  alternative  with  abhor- 
rence.  Ilim  she  made  one  of  her  champions  ;  the  rest  were  tied 
and  bound,  and  after  being  kept  a  wiiilc  in  a  dungeon  were  sent 
oti'  as  a  present  to  the  King  of  Egypt,  with  an  escort  that  came 
from  Damascus  to  fetch  tiiom. 

Exulting  was  left  the  fair  and  bigoted  magician  ;  but  she  little 
guessed  w  hat  a  new  fortune  awaited  them  on  the  road.  The  dis- 
cord with  which  the  powers  of  evil  had  seconded  her  endeavours 
to  weaken  the  Christian  camp  had  turned  in  tiiis  instance  against 
herself.  It  had  made  Rinaldo  a  wanderer  ;  it  had  brought  his 
wanderings  into  this  very  path  ;  and  he  now  met  the  prisoners, 
and  bade  defiance  to  the  escort.  A  battle  ensued,  in  which  the 
hero  won  his  accustomed  victory.  The  Christians,  receiving  the 
armour  of  their  foes,  joyfully  took  their  way  back  to  the  camp  ; 
and  one  of  the  escort  who  escaped  the  slaughter,  returned  to  Ar- 
mida  with  news  of  the  deliverance  of  her  captives. 

The  mortified  enchantress  took  horse  and  went  in  pursuit  of 
Rinaldo,  with  wrath  and  vengeance  in  her  heart.  She  tracked 
him  from  place  to  place,  till  she  knew  he  must  arrive  on  the 
banks  of  the  Orontes  ;  and  there,  making  a  stealthy  circuit,  she 
CEist  a  spell,  and  lay  in  wait  for  him  in  a  little  island  which  di- 
vided  the  stream  in  two.* 

Rinaldo  came  up  with  his  squires  ;  he  beheld  on  the  bank  a 
pillar  of  white  marble,  and  beside  it  on  the  water  a  little  boat. 
The  pillar  presented  an  inscription,  inviting  travellers  to  cross  to 
the  island  and  behold  a  wonder  of  the  worl.1.  The  hero  accepted 
the  invitation ;  but  as  the  boat  was  too   small  to  hold  more  than 

♦  "  That  sweet  p^ovp 

Of  Daphne  by  OronU-a."        Parad.  Ijost,  book  iv. 

It  was  famous  for  the  most  luxurious  worwhip  of  antiquity.     VicU  Gibbon,  vol. 
iii.  p.  198. 


492  RINALDO   AND   ARMIDA. 


one  person,  and  the  circumstance  probably  an  appeal  to  his  cour- 
age, he  bade  his  squires  wait  for  him,  and   proceeded  by  himself. 

On  reaching  the  island  and  casting  his  eyes  eagerly  round 
about,  the  adventurer  could  discern  nothing  but  trees,  and  grottos, 
flowers,  and  grass,  and  water.  He  thought  himself  trifled  with  ; 
but  as  the  spot  was  beautiful  and  refreshing,  he  took  ofl"  his  hel- 
met, resolving  to  stay  a  little  and  repose.  He  crossed  to  the 
farther  side  of  the  island,  and  lay  down  on  the  river-side. 

On  a  sudden  he  observed  the  water  bubble  and  gurgle  in  a  man- 
ner that  was  very  strange  ;  and  presently  the  top  of  a  head  arose, 
with  beautiful  hair,  then  the  face  of  a  damsel,  then  the  bosom. 
The  fair  creature  stood  half  out  of  the  stream,  and  warbled  a 
song  so  luxurious  and  so  lulling,  that  the  little  wind  there  was 
seemed  to  fall  in  order  to  listen  ;  and  the  young  warrior  was  so 
drowsed  with  the  sweetness,  that  languor  crept  through  all  his 
senses,  and  he  slept. 

Armida  came  from  out  a  thicket  and  looked  on  him.  She  had 
resolved  that  he  should  perish. 

But  when  she  saw  how  placidly  he  breathed,  and  what  an  inti- 
mation of  beautiful  eyes  there  was  in  his  very  eyelids,  she  hung 
over  him,  still  looking. 

In  a  little  while  she  sat  down  by  his  side,  always  looking.  She 
hung  over  him  as  Narcissus  did  over  the  water,  and  indignation 
melted  out  of  her  heart.  She  cooled  his  face  with  her  veil ;  she 
made  a  fan  of  it ;  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  worship  of  those 
hidden  eyes.     Of  an  enemy  she  became  a  lover.* 

Armida  gathered  trails  of  roses  and  lilies  from  the  thickets 
around  her,  and  cast  a  spell  on  them,  and  made  bands  with  which 
she  fettered  his  sleeping  limbs  ;  and  then  she  called  her  nymphs, 
and  they  put  him  into  her  car,  and  she  went  away  v/ith  him 
through  the  air  far  off*,  even  to  one  of  the  Fortunate  Islands  in  the 
great  ocean,  where  her  jealousy,  assisted  by  her  art,  would  be  in 
dread  of  no  visitors,  no  discovery.  She  bore  him  to  the  top  of  a 
mountain,  and  cast  a  spell  about  the  mountain,  to  make  the  top 
lovely  and  the  sides  inaccessible.     She  put  shapes  of  wild  beasts 

*  I  omit  a  point  about  '-fires"  of  love,  and  "ices"  of  the  heart;  and  I  will 
here  observe,  once  for  all,  that  I  omit  many  such  in  these  versions  of  Tasso,  for 
the  reason  given  in  the  Preface. 


RINALDO   AND    ARMIDA.  VXi 

and  monsters  in  the  woods  of  the  lowest  region  ;  and  heaps  of  ice 
in  the  second  ;  and  alluring  and  het raying  shapes  and  enchant- 
ments towards  the  summit  ;  and  round  the  summit  she  put  walls 
and  labyrinths  of  inextricable  error  ;  and  in  the  heart  of  these 
was  a  palace  by  a  lake,  and  the  loveliest  of  gardens. 

Here  Rinaldo  was  awaked  by  love  and  beauty,  and  here  for 
the  present  he  is  left. 


494  RINALDO  AND   ARMIDA. 


PART    THE    THIRD 


Meantime  the  siege  of  the  Holy  City  had  gone  on,  with  various 
success  on  either  side,  but  chiefly  to  the  loss  of  the  Christians. 
The  machinations  of  Satan  were  prevailing.  Rinaldo,  in  his 
absence,  was  thought  to  have  been  slain  by  the  contrivance  of 
Godfrey,  which  nearly  produced  a  revolt  of  the  forces.  Godfrey 
was  himself  wounded  in  battle  by  Clorinda  ;  and  now  the  great 
wooden  tower  was  burnt,  and  Clorinda  slain  in  consequence  (as 
you  have  heard  in  another  place),  which  oppressed  the  courage 
of  Tancred  with  melancholy. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Powers  of  Evil  were  far  from  being  as 
prosperous  as  they  wished.  They  had  lost  the  soul  of  Clorinda. 
They  had  seen  Godfrey  healed  by  a  secret  messenger  from 
Heaven,  who  dropt  celestial  balsam  into  his  wound.  They  had 
seen  the  return  of  Armida's  prisoners,  who  had  arrived  just  in 
time  to  change  the  fortune  of  a  battle,  and  drive  the  Pagans  back 
within  their  walls.  And  worse  than  all,  they  had  again  felt  the 
arm  of  St.  Michael,  who  had  threatened  them  with  worse  conse- 
quences if  they  reappeared  in  the  contest. 

Tiie  fiends,  however,  had  colleagues  on  earth,  who  plotted  for 
them  meanwhile.  The  Christians  had  set  about  making  another 
tower  ;  but  in  this  proceeding  they  were  thwarted  by  the  en- 
chanter Ismeno,  who  cast  his  spells  to  better  purpose  this  time 
than  he  had  done  in  the  affair  of  the  stolen  image.  The  forest  in 
wiiich  the  Christians  obtained  wood  for  these  engines  lay  in  a 
solitary  valley,  not  far  from  the  camp.  It  was  very  old,  dark, 
and  intricate ;  and  had  already  an  evil  fame  as  the  haunt  of  im- 
pure  spirits.  No  shepherd  ever  took  his  flock  there  ;  no  Pagan 
would  cut  a  bough  from  it  •  no  traveller  approached  it,  unless  he 


RINALDO   AND    AR^HDA.  195 


had  lost  his  way :  he  made  a  large  circuit  to  avoid  it,  and  jK)intod 
it  out  anxiously  to  his  companions. 

The  necessity  of  the  Christians  compelU'd  them  to  defy  this 
evil  repute  of  the  forest ;  and  Ismeno  Ijastcncd  to  oppose  them. 
He  drew  his  line,  and  uttered  his  incantations,  and  called  on  iho 
spirits  whom  St.  Michael  had  rebuked,  bidiiing  tliem  come  and 
take  charge  of  the  forest — every  one  of  his  tree,  as  a  soul  of  its 
body.  The  spirits  delayed  at  first,  not  only  for  dread  of  the  great 
angel,  but  because  they  resented  the  biddings  of  mortality,  even 
in  their  own  cause.  The  magician,  however,  persisted  ;  and  his 
spells  becoming  too  powerful  to  be  withstood,  presently  they  came 
pouring  in  by  myriads,  occupying  the  whole  place,  and  rendering 
the  very  approach  to  it  a  task  of  fear  and  labour.  The  first  parly 
of  men  that  came  to  cut  wood  were  unable  to  advance  when  they 
beheld  the  trees,  but  turned  like  children,  and  became  the  mock- 
ery of  the  camp.  Godfrey  sent  them  back,  witli  a  chosen  squad- 
ron to  animate  them  to  the  work  ;  but  tlic  sfjuadron  themselves, 
however  boldly  they  atiected  to  proceed,  had  no  sooner  ap- 
proached the  spot  than  they  found  reason  to  forgive  the  fears  of  the 
wood-cutters.  Tiie  earth  shook  ;  a  great  wind  began  rising, 
with  a  sound  of  waters  ;  and  presently,  every  dreadful  noise  ever 
heard  by  man  seemed  mingled  into  one,  and  advancing  to  meet 
them — roarings  of  lions,  hissings  of  serpents,  pealings  and  rolls 
of  thunder.  The  squadron  went  back  to  Godfrey,  and  plainly 
confessed  that  it  had  not  courage  enough  to  enter  such  a  place. 

A  leader,  of  the  name  of  Alcasto,  shook  his  head  at  this  can- 
dour with  a  contemptuous  smile.  lie  was  a  man  of  the  stupider 
sort  of  courage,  without  mind  enough  to  conceive  danger.  "  Pretty 
soldiers  !"  exclaimed  he,  "to  be  afraid  of  noises  and  sights  !  Give 
the  duty  to  me.  Nothing  shall  stop  Alcasto,  though  the  place  be 
the  mouth  of  hell." 

Alcasto  went ;  and  he  went  farther  than  the  rest,  ami  the  trem- 
bling woodcutters  once  more  prepared  I  eir  axes  ;  but,  on  a  sud- 
den, there  sprang  up  between  them  and  i"ie  trees  a  wall  of  fire 
wfcich  girded  the  whole  forest.  It  had  glowing  battlements  and 
towers;  and  on  these  there  appeared  armed  spirits,  with  the 
strangest  and  most  bewildering  aspects.  Alcasto  retirecl — slowly 
indeed,  but  with  shame  and  terror ;   nor  had  he  the  courage  to  re- 


496  RINALDO  AND   ARMIDA. 


appear  before  his  commander.  Godfrey  had  him  brought,  but 
could  hardly  get  a  word  from  his  lips.  The  man  talked  like  one 
in  a  dream. 

At  last  Tancred  went.  He  would  have  gone  before ;  but  he 
had  neither  thought  the  task  so  difficult,  nor  did  he  care  for  any 
thing  that  was  going  forward.  His  mind  was  occupied  with  the 
dead  Clorinda.  He  had  now  work  that  aroused  him ;  and  he  set 
out  in  good  earnest  for  the  forest,  not  unmoved  in  his  imagina- 
tion, but  resolved  to  defy  all  appearances. 

Arrived  at  the  wall  of  fire,  Tancred  halted  a  moment,  and 
looked  up  at  the  visages  on  its  battlements,  not  without  alarm. 
Many  reflections  passed  swiftly  through  his  mind,  some  urging 
him  forward,  others  withholding  ;  but  he  concluded  with  stepping 
right  through  the  fire.     It  did  not  resist  him  :  he  did  not  feel  it. 

The  fire  vanished  ;  and,  in  its  stead,  there  poured  down  a  storm 
of  hail  and  rain,  black  as  midnight.     This  vanished  also. 

Tancred  stood  amazed  for  an  instant,  and  then  passed  on.  He 
was  soon  in  the  thick  of  the  wood,  and  for  some  time  made  his 
way  with  difficulty.  On  a  sudden,  he  issued  forth  into  a  large 
open  glade,  like  an  ampitheatre,  in  which  there  was  nothing  but 
a  cypress-tree  that  stood  in  the  middle.  The  cypress  was  marked 
with  hieroglyphical  characters,  mixed  with  some  words  in  the 
Syrian  tongue  which  he  could  read  ;  and  these  words  requested 
the  stranger  to  spare  the  fated  place,  nor  trouble  the  departed 
souls  who  were  there  shut  up  in  the  trees.  Meantime  the  wind 
was  constantly  moaning  around  it ;  and  in  the  moaning  was  a 
sound  of  human  sio-hs  and  tears. 

Tancred's  heart,  for  a  moment,  was  overcome  with  awe  and 
pity  ;  but  recollecting  himself,  and  resolving  to  make  amends  for 
his  credulity,  he  smote  with  all  his  might  at  the  cypress.  The 
blow,  wonderful  to  see,  produced  an  effusion  of  blood,  which  dyed 
the  grass  about  the  root.  Tancred's  hair  stood  on  end.  He 
smote,  however,  again,  with  double  violence,  resolving  to  see  the 
end  of  the  marvel ;  and  then  he  heard  a  woful  voice  issuing  as 
from  a  tomb. 

"  Hast  thou  not  hurt  me,"  it  said,  "  Tancred,  enough  already  '? 
Hast  thou  slain  the  human  body  which  I  once  joyfully  inhabited  ; 
and  now  must  thou  cut  and  rend  me,  even  in  this  wretched   en- 


RINALDO   AND   ARMIDA.  497 


closure  ?  iMy  name  was  Clorinda.  Every  troo  wljich  thou  be- 
holdest  is  the  habitation  of  some  Christian  or  Pufun  soul  ;  for  till 
come  hither  that  are  slain  beneath  the  walls  of  the  city,  conipeliod 
by  I  know  not  what  power,  or  for  what  reason.  Hvery  bouph  ni 
the  forest  is  alive  ;  and  when  thou  cuttest  down  a  tree  thou 
slayest  a  soul." 

As  a  sick  man  in  a  dream  thinks,  and  yet  thinks  not,  that  ho 
sees  some  dreadful  monster,  and,  notwithstandinc;  ins  doubt,  wishes 
to  rty  from  the  horrible  perplexity  ;  so  the  trembling;  lover,  thou^Mi 
suspecting  what  he  beheld,  had  so  frigiitful  an  image  before  his 
thoughts  of  Clorinda  weeping  and  wailing  after  death,  and  bleed- 
ing  in  her  very  soul,  that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  do  more,  or  to 
remain  in  the  place.  He  returned  in  bewildered  sorrow  to  God- 
frey, and  told  him  all.  "  It  is  not  in  my  power,"  he  said,  "  to 
touch  another  bouirh  of  tliat  forest."* 

The  astonished  leader  of  the  Christians  now  made  up  his  mind 
to  go  himself;  and  so,  with  prayer  and  valour  united,  bring  this 
appalling  adventure  to  some  conclusion.  But  the  hermit  Peter 
dissuaded  him.  The  holy  man,  in  an  ecstasy  of  foreknowledge, 
beheld  the  coming  of  the  only  champion  fated  to  conclude  it ;  and 
Godfrey  himself  the  same  night  had  a  vision  from  heaven,  bidding 
him  grant  the  petition  of  those  who  should  sue  him  next  day  for 
the  recall  of  Rinaldo  from  exile — Rinaldo,  the  right  hand  of  the 
army,  as  Godfrey  was  its  head. 

The  petition  was  made  as  soon  as  daylight  appeared  :  and  two 
knights.  Carlo  and  Ubaldo,  were  despatched  in  search  of  the  fated 
hero. 

*  In  the  original  an  impetuous  gust  of  wind  carries  away  the  gwonl  of  Tan- 
cred;  a  circumstance  wliich  I  mention  because  Collins  adinirtxl  it  (sw  the  quota- 
tion from  him  in  the  Pretace).  I  confess  I  cannot  do  so.  It  seems  to  me  (juite  su- 
perfluous ;  and  when  the  reader  linds  the  sword  conveniently  lyin<;  for  the  hero 
outside  the  woo<l,  as  he  returns,  the  effect  is  childish  and  pantomimic.  If  the 
macrician  wanted  him  not  to  fijrht  any  more,  why  should  he  give  him  the  Bword 
back?  And  if  it  was  meant  as  a  present  to  him  from  Clorinda,  what  gave  her 
the  power  to  make  the  present  7  Tasso  retiiined  both  the  particulars  in  the 
Genisalevimc  Conquislata. 


498  RINALDO  AND  ARMIDA/ 


PART   THE    FOURTH. 

THE   LOVES   OF   RINALDO   AND  ARMIDA. 

The  knights,  with  information  procured  on  the  road  from  a  good 
wizard,  struck  off  for  the  seacoast,  and  embarking  in  a  pinnace 
which  miraculously  awaited  them,  sailed  along  the  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean  for  the  retreat  of  Armida.  They  saw  the  Egyp- 
tian army  assembled  at  Gaza,  but  hoped  to  return  with  Rinaldo 
before  it  could  effect  any  thing  at  Jerusalem.  They  passed  the 
mouths  of  the  Nile,  and  Alexandria,  and  Gyrene,  and  Ptolemais, 
and  the  cities  of  the  Moors,  and  the  dangers  of  the  Greater  and 
Lesser  Whirlpools,  and  their  pilot  shewed  them  the  spot  where 
Carthage  stood, — Carthage,  now  a  dead  city,  whose  grave  is 
scarcely  discernible.  For  cities  die  ;  kingdoms  die  ; — a  little 
sand  and  grass  covers  all  that  was  once  lofty  in  them  and  glorious. 
And  yet  man,  forsooth,  disdains  that  he  is  mortal  !  Oh,  mind  of 
ours,  inordinate  and  proud  !* 

*  "  Giace  1'  alta  Cartago    appena  i  segni 
De  1'  alte  sue  ruine  il  lido  serba.  " 
Muoiono  le  citt^ :  muoiono  i  rcgni : 

Copre  i  fasti  e  le  pompe  arena  ed  erba : 
E  1'  uom  d'  esser  mortal  par  che  si  sdegni. 
Oh  nostra  mente  cupida  e  superba !" 

Canto  XV,  st.  20. 

Great  Carthage  is  laid  low.     Scarcely  can  eye 

Trace  where  she  stood  with  all  her  niighty  crowd : 

For  cities  die  ;  kingdoms  and  nations  die ; 
A  little  sand  and  grass  is  all  their  shroud ; 

Yet  mortal  man  disdains  mortality ! 
O  mind  of  ours,  inordinate  and  proud  ! 

Very  fine  is  this  stanza  of  Tasso ;  and  yet,  like  some  of  the  finest  writing  of 
Gray,  it  is  scarcely  more  than  a  cento.  The  commentators  call  it  a  "  beautiful 
imitation"  of  a  passage  in  Sannazzaro,  and  it  is;  but  the  passage  in  Sannazzaro 


RINALDO   AND   ARMIDA.  499 

After  looking  towards  the  site  of  Carthage,  they  passed  Algiers, 
and  Oran,  and  Tingitana,  and  beheld  tlie  opposite  coast  of  Spain, 
and  then  they  cleared  the  narrow  sea  of  Gibraltar,  and  came  out 
into  the  immeasurable  ocean,  leaving  all  sight  of  land  behind 
them  ;  and  so  speeding  ever  onward  in  the  billows,  they  beheld 
at  last  a  cluster  of  mountainous  and  beautiful  islands  ;  the  larger 
ones  inhabited  by  a  simple  people,  the  smaller  quite  wild  and 
desolate.  So  at  least  they  appeared.  But  in  one  of  these  small- 
er islands  was  the  mountain,  on  the  top  of  which,  in  the  indul- 
gence of  every  lawless  pleasure,  lay  the  champion  of  the  Chris- 
tian faith.     This  the  pilot  shewed  to  the  two  knights,  and  then 

is  also  beautiful.  It  contains  not  only  the  ''  Giace  Cartago,"  and  the  "  appena  i 
segni,"  &c.,  but  the  contrast  of  the  pride  widi  the  mortality  of  man,  and,  above 
all,  the  "  dying"  of  the  cities,  which  is  the  finest  thought  in  the  stanza  of  its 
imitator. 

"Qua  dcNnctse  Carthaginis  arces 
Procubuere,  jacentque  infunsto  in  littore  turrcs 
Eversae  ;  quantam  ille  metu,  quantum  ilia  laborura 
Urbs  dedit  insultans  Latio  et  Laurentibus  arvis ! 
Nunc  passim  vix  reliquias,  vix  nomina  servans 
Obruitur  propriis  non  agnoscenda  ruinis. 
Et  querimur  genus  infolix,  humaa  labare 
Membra  aevo,  cum  regna  palam  moriantur  et  urbes." 

De  Partu  Vir girds ^  lib.  ii. 

Tlie  commentators  trace  the  conclusion  of  this  passage  to  Dante,  where  he 
says  that  it  is  no  wonder  families  perish,  when  cities  themselves  "  have  their 
terminations"  (termin  hano) ;  but  though  there  is  a  like  germ  of  thought  in 
Dante,  the  mournful  flower  of  it,  the  word  "death"  is  not  there.  It  was  evi- 
dently suggested  by  a  passage  (also  pointed  out  by  the  commentators)  in  the 
consolatory  letter  of  Salpicius  to  Cicero,  on  the  death  of  his  daughter  Tullia ; 
— "  Heu  nos  homunculi  indiatamur,  si  quis  nostrum  interiit,  aut  occisus  est, 
quorum  vita  brevior  esse  debet,  cum  uno  loco  tot  oppidorum  cadaverg,  projecta 
jaceant."  (Alas!  we  poor  human  creatures  are  indignant  if  any  one  of  us  dies 
or  is  slain,  frail  as  are  the  materials  of  which  we  are  constituted  ;  and  yet  we 
can  see,  lying  together  in  one  place,  the  dead  bodies  of  I  know  not  how  many 
cities !)  The  music  of  Tasso's  line  was  indebted  to  one  in  Petrarch's  Trlonfo 
del  Tempo,  v.  112: 

"  Pasean  le  signorie,  passano  i  regni ;" 

and  the  fine  concluding  verse,  "Oh  nostra  mente,"  to  another,  perhaps,  in  his 
Trionfo  ddla  Divinitd.  v.  Gl ,  not  without  a  recollection  of  Lucretius,  lib.  ii.  v.  14  : 

"  O  miseras  hominiini  menteis  !  o  pectora  cajca  !" 
PART  III.     -  7 


500  RINALDO  AND   ARMIDA. 

steered  the  pinnace  into  its  bay  ;  and  here,  after  a  voyage  of 
four  days  and  nights,  it  dropped  its  sails  without  need  of  anchor, 
so  mild  and  sheltered  was  the  port,  with  natural  moles  curving 
towards  the  entrance,  and  evergreen  woods  over  head. 

It  was  evenino;,  with  a  beautiful  sunset.  The  knights  took 
leave  of  the  pilot,  and  proceeding  instantly  on  their  journey,  well 
furnished  with  all  advices  how  to  proceed,  slept  that  night  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain ;  for  they  were  not  to  begin  to  scale  it  till 
sunrise.  With  the  first  beams  of  the  sun  they  arose  and  as- 
cended. They  had  not  climbed  far,  when  a  serpent  rushed  out 
upon  the  path,  entirely  stopping  it,  but  fled  at  the  sound  of  a 
slender  rod,  which  Ubaldo  whisked  as  he  advanced.  A  lion,  for 
all  his  cavernous  jaws,  did  the  same ;  nor  was  greater  resistance 
made  by  a  whole  herd  of  monsters.  They  now  mounted  with 
great  labour  the  region  of  ice  and  snow ;  but,  at  the  top  of  it, 
emerged  from  winter-time  into  summer.  The  air  was  full  of 
sweet  odours,  yet  fresh  ;  they  sauntered  (for  they  could  not  walk 
fast)  over  a  velvet  sv/ard,  under  trees,  by  the  side  of  a  shady 
river ;  and  a  bewitching  pleasure  began  to  invite  their  senses. 
But  they  knew  the  river,  and  bore  in  mind  their  duty.  It  was 
called  the  River  of  Laughter.*  A  little  way  on,  increasing  in 
beauty  as  it  went,  it  formed  a  lucid  pool  in  a  dell ;  and  by  the 
side  of  this  pool  was  a  table  spread  with  every  delicacy,  and  in 
the  midst  of  it  two  bathing  damsels,  talking  and  laughing.  Some- 
times they  sprinkled  one  another,  then  dived,  then  partly  came 
up  without  shewing  their  faces,  then  played  a  hundred  tricks, 
pretending  all  the  while  not  to  see  the  travellers.  Then  they  be- 
came quiet,  and  sunk  gently  ;  and,  as  they  reappeared,  one  of 
them  rose  half  into  sight,  sweetly  as  the  morning  star  when  it 
issues  from  the  water  dewy  and  dropping,  or  as  Venus  herself 
arose  out  of  the  froth  of  the  sea.  Such  looked  this  damsel,  and 
so  did  the  crystal  moisture  go  dropping  from  her  tresses.  Then 
she  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  travellers,  and  feigning  to  be- 
hold them  for  the  first  time,  shrunk  within  herself.  She  has- 
tened to  undo  the  knot  in  which  her  tresses  were  tied  up,  and 

*  A  fountain  which  caused  laughter  that  killed  people  is  in  Pomponius 
Mela's  account  of  the  Fortunate  Islands  :  and  was  the  origin  of  that  of  Boiar- 
do ;  as  I  ought  to  have  noticed  in  the  place. 


RIXALDO  AND   ARMIDA.  501 

shook  them  round  about  her,  and  down  thoy  fell  to  the  water  thick 
and  long,  enclosing  that  beautiful  sight ;  and  yet  the  enclosure  it- 
self was  not  less  beautiful.  So,  hid  in  the  pool  below,  and  in  her 
tresses  above,  she  glanced  at  the  knights  through  her  hair,  with  a 
blushino;  crladness.  She  blushed  and  she  lau<^iiod  at  the  same 
time  ;  and  the  blushing  was  more  beautiful  for  the  laughter,  and 
the  laughter  for  the  blushing  ;  and  then  she  said,  in  a  voice  wliich 
would  alone  have  conquered  any  other  hearers,  "  You  are  very 
happy  to  be  allowed  to  come  to  this  place.  Nothing  but  delight 
is  here.  Our  queen  must  have  chosen  you  from  a  great  number. 
But  be  pleased  first  to  rid  you  of  the  dust  of  your  journey,  and  to 
refresh  yourselves  at  this  table." 

So  spake  the  one ;  and  the  other  accompanied  her  speech  with 
accordant  looks  and  gestures,  as  the  dance  accompanies  the  music. 

Nor  was  the  allurement  unfelt. 

But  the  companions  passed  on,  taking  no  notice  ;  and  the  bathers 
went  sullenly  under  the  water.* 

*  All  this  description  of  the  females  bathing  is  in  the  highest  taste  of  the 
voluptuous ;  particularly  the  latter  part : 

"  Qual  mattutina  stella  esce  de  1'  onde 

Rucriadosa  c  stillante  :  o  come  fuore 
Spunto  nascendo  gik  da  le  fecondc 

Spume  de  1'  ocein  la  Dea  d'  Amore  : 
Tale  apparve  costei :  tal  le  sue  bionde 

Chiomc  stillavan  cristallino  umorc., 
Poi  giro  gli  occhi,  e  pur  allor  s'  infijlse 
Que'  duo  vedere,  e  in  se  tutta  si  strinse : 

• 

E  '1  crin  die  'n  cima  al  capo  avea  raccolto 

In  un  sol  nodo,  immantincnte  sciolse; 
Che  lunghissimo  in  giti  cadendo  e  folto, 

D'  un  aureo  manto  i  molli  avori  involse. 
Oh  che  vago  spettacolo  6  lor  tolto  ! 

IVIa  Drton  men  vago  fu  chi  loro  il  tolse. 
Cos!  da  r  acque  e  da  capcUi  ascosa, 

A  lor  si  volsc,  licta  e  vergognosa. 

Rideva  insieme,  e  insiemc  cUa  arrossia ; 

Ed  era  ncl  rossor  piii  hello  il  riso, 
E  nel  riso  il  rossor,  che  le  copria 

Insino  al  mento  il  delicate  viso." 

Canto  XV.  st.  60. 


502  RINALDO  AND  ARMIDA. 


The  knights  passed  through  the  gates  of  the  park  of  Armida, 
and  entered  a  labyrinth  made  with  contrivance  the  most  intricate. 
Here  their  path  would  have  been  lost,  but  for  a  map  traced  by- 
one  who  knew  the  secret.  By  the  help  of  this  they  threaded  it 
in  safety,  and  issued  upon  a  garden  beautiful  beyond  conception. 
Every  thing  that  could  be  desired  in  gardens  was  presented  to 
their  eyes  in  one  landscape,  and  yet  without  contradiction  or  con- 
fusion,—flowers,  fruits,  water,  sunny  hills,  descending  woods,  re- 
treats into  corners  and  grottos :  and  what  put  the  last  loveliness 
upon  the  scene  was,  that  the  art  which  did  all  was  no  where  dis- 

Spcnser,  among  the  other  obligations  wliich  it  delighted  him  to  owe  to  this 
part  of  Tasso's  poem,  has  translated  these  last  twelve  lines : 

"  With  that  the  other  likewise  up  arose, 

And  her  fair  locks,  which  formerly  were  bound 

Up  in  one  knot,  she  low  adown  did  loose, 

Which,  flowing  long  and  thick,  her  cloth'd  around, 

And  th'  ivory  in  golden  mantle  gown'd : 

So  that  fair  spectacle  from  him  was  reft  ; 

Yet  that  which  reft  it,  no  less  fair  was  found. 

So  hid  in  locks  and  waves  from  looker's  theft, 
Nought  but  her  lovely  face  she  for  his  looking  left. 

Withal  she  laughed,  and  she  blush'd  withal ; 
That  blushing  to  her  laughter  gave  more  grace, 
And  laughter  to  her  blushing." 

Faii-y  Queen,  book  ii.  canto  12,  st.  67. 

Tasso's  translator,  Fairfax,  worthy  both  of  his  original  and  of  Spenser,  has 
had  the  latter  before  him  in  his  version  of  the  passage,  not  without  a  charmjng 
addition  of  his  own  at  the  close  of  the  first  stanza : 

"  And  her  fair  locks,  that  in  a  knot  were  tied 

High  on  her  crown,  she  'gan  at  large  unfold  : 
Which  falling  long  and  thick,  and  spreading  wide, 

The  ivory  soft  and  white  mantled  in  gold : 
Thus  her  fair  skin  the  dame  would  clothe  and  hide ; 

And  that  which  hid  it,  no  less  fair  was  hold. 
Thus  clcil  in  waves  and  locks,  her  eyes  divine 
From  them  ashamed  would  she  turn  and  twine. 

Withal  she  smiled,  and  she  blush'd  withal ; 

Her  blush  her  smiling,  smiles  her  blushing  graced." 


RINALDO  AND   ARMIDA.  503 


cernible.*  You  ini«rlit  have  supposed  (so  exquisitrly  was  the 
wild  and  the  cuhivalcd  united)  that  all  had  sunicliow  happened, 
not  been  contrived.  It  seemed  to  be  the  art  of  Nature  hersi^-lf ; 
as  tliough,  in  a  fit  of  playfuhiess,  she  liad  imitated  her  imitator. 
But  the  temperature  of  the  phice,  if  nothing  else,  was  j)hiiid y  the 
worlv  of  magic,  for  blossoms  and  fruit  abounded  at  the  same  time. 
The  ripe  and  the  budding  lig  grew  on  the  same  bough  ;  green 
apples  were  clustered  upon  those  witii  red  cheeks  ;  the  vines  in 
one  place  had  small  leaves  and  hard  little  grapes,  and  in  the  next 
they  laid  forth  their  richest  tapestry  in  the  sun,  heavy  with 
bunches  full  of  nectar.  At  one  time  you  listened  to  the  warbling 
of  birds,  and  a  minute  after,  as  if  they  had  stopped  on  purpose, 
nothing  was  heard  but  the  whispering  of  winds  and  the  fall  of 
waters.  It  seemed  as  if  every  thing  in  the  jdace  contributed  to 
the  harmony  and  the  sweetness.  The  notes  of  the  turtle-dove 
were  deeper  than  any  where  else  ,  the  hard  oak,  and  the  chaste 
laurel,  and  the  whole  exuberant  family  of  trees,  tlie  eartii,  the 
water,  every  element  of  creation,  seemed  to  have  been  compound- 
ed but  for  one  object,  and  to  breathe  forth  the  fulness  of  its 
bliss,  f 

"  E  quel  clic  '1  hello  c  '1  caro  accrcsce  a  1'  oprc, 
L'  arte,  che  tutto  fa,  nulla  si  scopre. 

Stinii  (si  misto  il  culto  6  col  ncgletto) 
Sol  natural  e  cr\'n  ornamenti  e  i  siti. 
Di  natura  arte  par,  che  por  dih'tto 
L'  iniitatricc  sua  scherzando  iniiti." 

The  idea  of  Nature  imitating  Art,  and  playfully  imiUiting  her,  is  in  Ovid  ;  but 
that  of  a  mixture  of  cultivation  and  wildness  is,  as  far  as  I  am  aware,  Tasso's 
own ;  and  gives  him  the  honour  of  having  been  the  first  to  suggest  the  pirtu- 
resque  principle  of  modern  frardeninir,  as  I  ought  to  liave  reinemU'rtHl,  when 
assiirniniT  it  to  Spenser  in  a  late  publication  (Iiruu:ciruilion  and  Fancy,  p.  109). 
I  should  have  noticed  also,  in  the  same  work,  the  obligations  of  Spt^nscr  to  the 
Italian  poet  for  the  passage  l>efore  quoted  al)out  the  nymph  in  the  water. 

t  "  Par  che  la  dura  querela  e  'I  casto  alloro, 
E  tutta  la  frondosa  ainpia  famiglia. 
Par  che  la  terra  e  1'  acqua  e  formi  e  spiri 
Dolcissimi  d'  amor  sensi  e  sospiri." 

/(/.  St.  16. 

Fairfax  in  this  pas.sagc  is  very  graceful  and  happy  (in  the  first  part  of  his 


504  RINALDO  AND   ARMIDA. 


The  two  messengers,  hardening  their  souls  with  all  their  might 
against  the  enchanting  impression,  moved  forward  silently  among 
the  trees ;  till,  looking  through  the  branches  into  a  little  opening 
which  formed  a  flower,  they  saw — or  did  they  but  think  they 
saw  ? — no,  they  saw  indeed  the  hero  and  his  Armida  reclining 
on  the  grass.*  Her  dress  was  careless,  her  hair  loose  in  the 
summer- wind.  His  head  lay  in  her  bosom  ;  a  smile  trembled  on 
her  lips  and  in  her  eyes,  like  a  sunbeam  in  water ;  and  as  she 
thus  looked  on  him  with  passionate  love,  he  looked  up  at  her,  face 
to  face,  and  returned  it  with  all  his  soul. 

Now  she  kissed  his  lips,  now  his  eyee  ;  and  then  they  looked 
again  at  one  another  with  their  ever  hungry  looks,  and  then  she 
kissed  him  again,  and  he  gave  a  sigh  so  deep  you  would  have 
thought  his  soul  had  gone  out  of  him,  and  passed  into  hers.  The 
two  warriors  from  their  covert  gazed  on  the  loving  scene. 

At  the  lover's  side  there  hung  a  strange  accoutrement  for  a 
warrior,  namely,  a  crystal  mirror.  He  rose  a  little  on  his  elbow, 
and  gave  it  into  Armida's  hands  ;  and  in  two  different  objects 
each  beheld  but  one  emotion,  she  hers  in  the  glass,  and  he  his 
own  in  her  eyes.  But  he  would  not  suffer  her  to  look  long  at 
any  thing  but  himself;  and  then  they  spake  loving  and  adoring 
words  ;  and  after  a  while  Armida  bound  up  her  hair,  and  put 
some  flowers  into  it,  as  jewels  might  be  put  upon  gold,  and  added 
a  rose  or  two  to  the  lilies  of  her  bosom,  and  adjusted  her  veil. 
And  never  did  peacock  look  so  proudly  beautiful  when  he  dis- 
plays the  pomp  of  his  eyed  plumes ;  nor  was  ever  the  rainbow  so 

stanza  he  is  speaking  of  a  bird  that  sings  with  a  human  voice — which  I  have 
omitted) : 

"  She  ceased :  and  as  approving  all  she  spoke 

The  choir  of  birds  their  heavenly  tunes  renew; 

The  turtles  sigh'd,  and  sighs  with  kisses  broke; 
The  fowls  to  shades  unseen  by  pairs  withdrew ; 

It  seem'd  the  laurel  chaste  and  stubborn  oak, 
And  all  the  gentle  trees  on  earth  that  grew, 

It  seem'd  the  land,  the  sea,  and  heaven  above, 

All  breath'd  out  fancy  sweet,  and  aigh'd  out  love." 

*  "  Ecco  tra  fronde  e  fronde  il  guardo  avante 
Penetra,  e  vede,  o  pargli  di  vedere, 
Vede  per  certo,"  «fec.  M.  st.  17. 


RINALDO   AND   ARMIDA.  505 


sweetly  coloured  when  it  curves  forth  its  dewy  bosom  aj^aiiist  llio 
light.*  But  lovely  above  all  was  the  etlect  of  a  magic  girdle 
which  the  enchantress  had  made  with  her  whole  art,  and  which 
she  never  laid  aside  day  or  night.  Spirit  in  il  had  taken  sub- 
stance  ;  the  subtlest  emotions  of  the  soul  a  shape  and  palpability. 
Tender  disdains  were  in  it,  and  repulses  that  attracted,  and  levi- 
ties  that  endeared,  and  contentments  full  of  joy,  and  smiles,  and 
little  words,  and  drops  of  delicious  tears,  and  short-coming  siglis, 
and  soft  kisses.  All  these  she  had  mingled  together,  and  made 
one  delight  out  of  many,  and  wound  it  about  her  heart,  and  wore 
it  for  a  charm  irresistible. f 

And  now  she  kissed  him  once  more,  and  begged  leave  of  a 
little  absence  (for  love  is  courteous  ever),  and  so  went  as  usual  to 
her  books  and  her  magic  arts.  Rinaldo  remained  where  he  was, 
for  he  had  no  power  to  wish  himself  out  of  the  sweet  spot ;  only 
he  would  stray  a  while  among  the  trees,  and  amuse  himself  with 
the  birds  and  squirrels,  and  so  be  a  loving  hermit  till  she  returned. 
And  at  night  they  retired  under  one  roof,  still  in  the  midst  of  the 
garden. 

But  no  sooner  had  Armida  gone,  than  the  two  warriors  ibauud 

*  The  line  about  the  peacock,  ♦ 

*'  Spiega  la  pompa  de  I'  occhiute  piume," 

Opens  wide  the  pomp  of  his  eyed  plumes, 

was  such  a  favourite  with  Tasso  that  he  has  repeated  it  from  tke  Aminta,  and 
(I  think)  in  some  other  place,  but  I  cannot  call  it  to  mind. 

t  "  Tencri  sdcgni,  e  placide  e  tranquille 
Repulse,  e  cari  vezzi,  e  lictc  paci, 
Sorrisi,  e  parolette,  e  dolci  stille 
Di  pianto,  e  sospir'  tronchi,  e  moUi  baci.'' 

St.  25. 

This  is  the  cestus  m  Homer,  whicli  Venus  lends  to  Juno  for  the  puri)o.-*e  o( 
enchanting  Jupiter : 

H'  Kii  as-}  aT)fitaif>tv  c'XvaaTn  Kccrror  ifiaiTit 
HuikiXji/'  ci'Oa  i£  ui  tftX\r/joia  navTtt  tctvkto. 
Evfi'  III  fi-v  tpiXorni,  tv  I?  I/«fp>f»  cv  o'  oapiffjui, 
riafi'^affjf,  i;  r'  CK'Siipe  vow  rruva  Tcp  tppsveivruv. 

niad,  lib.  xiv.  21 1. 

She  said ;  and  from  her  balmy  bosom  loosed 
The  girdle  that  contained  all 


500  RIJN'ALDO  AND   ARMIDA. 


from  their  hiding-place,  and  stood  before  the  lover  glittering  in 
their  noble  arms. 

As  a  war-horse,  that  has  been  taken  from  the  wars,  and  become 
the  luxurious  husband  of  the  stud,  wanders  among  the  drove  in 
the  meadows  in  vile  enjoyment,  should  by  chance  a  trumpet  be 
heard  in  the  place,  or  a  dazzling  battle-axe  become  visible,  he 
turns  towards  it  that  instant,  and  neighs,  and  longs  to  be  in  the 
lists,  and  vehemently  desires  the  rider  on  his  back  who  is  to  dash 
and  be  dashed  at  in  the  course  ;  even  so  turned  the  young  hero 
when  the  light  of  the  armour  flashed  upon  him,  even  so  longed 
for  the  war,  even  so  shook  himself  up  out  of  his  bed  of  pleasure, 
with  all  his  great  qualities  awaked  and  eager. 

Ubaldo  saw  the  movement  in  his  heart,  and  held  right  in  his 
face  the  shield  of  adamant,  which  had  been  brought  for  the  pur- 
pose. It  was  a  mirror  that  shewed  to  the  eyes  of  every  one  who 
looked  into  it  the  very  man  as  he  was. 

But  when  Rinaldo  beheld  himself  indeed, — when  he  read  his 
transformation,  not  in  the  flattering  glass  of  the  enchantress,  but 
by  the  light  of  this  true,  and  simple,  and  severe  reflector, — his 
hair  tricked  out  with  flowers  and  unguents,  his  soft  mantle  of  ex- 
quisitest  dye,  and  his  very  sword  rendered  undistinguishable  for 
what  it  was  by  a  garland, — shame  and  remorse  fell  upon  him. 
He  felt  indeed  like  a  dreamer  come  to  himself.  He  looked  down. 
He  could  not  speak.  He  wished  to  hide  himself  in  the  bottom  of 
the  sea. 

Ubaldo  raised  his  voice  and  spoke.  "  All  Europe  and  Asia," 
said  he,  ''  are  in  arms.  Whoever  desires  fame,  or  is  a  worship- 
per of  his  Saviour,  is  a  fighter  in  the  land  of  Syria.  Thou 
only,  O  son  of  Bertoldo,  remainest  out  of  the  high  way  of  re- 
nown— in  luxury — in  a  little  corner  ;  thou  only,  unmoved  with 
the  movement  of  the  world,  the  champion  of  a  girl.  What 
dream,  what  lethargy  can  have  drowned  a  valour  like  thine  ? 
What  vileness  have  had  attraction  for  thee  ?  Up,  up,  and  with 
us.  The  camp,  the  commander  himself  calls  for  thee  ;  fortune 
and  victory  await  thee.  Come,  fated  warrior,  and  finish  thy 
work  ;  and  see  the  false  creed  which  thou  hast  shaken  laid  low 
beneath  thy  inevitable  sword." 

On  hearing  these  words  the  noble  youth  remained  for  a  time 


RINALDO   AND   ARMIDA.  50"; 


without  speaking,  without  moving.  At  h>ngtli  shame  gave  way 
to  a  passionate  sense  of  his  duty  ;  and,  with  u  new  lire  in  IiI.m 
cheeks,  he  tore  away  the  etieminate  ornumcnls  of  his  sorvitudo, 
and  quitted  tlie  spot  without  a  word.  In  a  few  moments  lie  had 
threaded  the  labyrinth  :  lie  was  outside  the  gate.  Eva  long  ho 
was  descending  the  mountain. 

But  meantime  Armida  had  received  news  of  the  two  visitors  ; 
and  coming  to  look  for  them,  and  casting  her  eyes  down  the  steep, 
she  beheld — with  his  face,  alas  !  turned  no  longer  towards  her 
own — the  hasty  steps  of  her  hero  between  his  companions.  She 
wished  to  cry  aloud,  but  was  unable.  She  might  have  resorted 
to  some  of  her  magic  devices,  but  her  heart  forbade  her.  She 
ran,  however — for  what  cared  she  for  dignity  ? — she  ran  down 
the  mountain,  hoping  still  by  her  beauty  and  her  tears  to  arrest 
the  fugitive  ;  but  his  feet  were  too  strong,  even  for  love  :  she  did 
not  reach  him  till  he  had  arrived  on  the  sea-shore.  Where  was 
her  pride  now  ?  where  the  scorn  she  had  exhibited  to  so  many 
suitors  ?  where  her  coquetry  and  her  self-suthciency — her  love 
of  being  loved,  witii  the  power  to  hate  the  lover  ?  The  enchan- 
tress was  now  taught  what  the  passion  was,  in  all  its  despair  as 
well  as  delight.  She  cried  aloud.  She  cared  not  for  the  pres- 
ence of  the  messengers.  "  Oh,  go  not,  Rinaldo,"  she  cried  ; 
"  go  not,  or  take  me  with  thee.  My  heart  is  torn  to  pieces. 
Take  me,  or  turn  and  kill  me.  Stop,  at  least,  and  be  cruel  to  me 
here.  If  thou  hast  the  heart  to  fly  me,  it  will  not  be  hard  to 
thee  to  stay  and  be  unkind." 

Even  the  messengers  were  moved  at  this,  or  seemed  to  be 
moved.  Ubaldo  told  the  fugitive  that  it  would  be  heroical  in  him 
to  wait  and  hear  what  the  lady  had  to  say,  with  gentleness  and 
firmness.     His  conquest  oyer  himself  would  then  be  complete. 

Rinaldo  stopped,  and  Armida  came  up  breathless  and  in  tears 
— lovelier  than  ever.  She  looked  earnestly  at  him  at  first,  with- 
out a  word.     He  gave  her  but  a  glance,  and  looked  aside. 

As  a  fine  singer,  before  he  lets  loose  his  tongue  in  the  lofty  ut- 
terance of  his  emotion,  prepares  the  minds  of  his  hearers  with 
some  sweet  prelude,  exquisitely  mod  ilating  in  a  lower  tone,  so 
the  enchantress,  whose  anguish  had  .lot  deprived  her  of  all  sense 
of  her  art,  breathed  a  few  sighs  to  Jispose  the  soul  of  her  idol  to 

7* 


508  RINALDO  AND   ARMIDA. 


hear  her,  and  then  said :  "  I  do  not  beg  thee  to  hear  me  as  one 
that  loves  me.  We  both  loved  once ;  but  that  is  over.  I  beg 
thee  to  hear,  even  though  as  one  that  loves  me  not.  It  will  cost 
thy  disdain  nothing  to  grant  me  that.  Perhaps  thou  hast  dis- 
covered a  pleasure  in  hating  me :  do  so.  I  come  not  to  deprive 
thee  of  it :  if  it  seem  just  to  thee,  just  let  it  be.  I  too  once  hated. 
I  hated  the  Christians — hated  even  thee.  I  thought  it  right  to  do 
so  :  I  was  bred  up  to  think  it.  I  pursued  thee  to  do  thee  mischief; 
I  overtook  thee  ;  I  bore  thee  away  ;  and  worse  than  all — for  now, 
perhaps,  thou  loathest  me  for  it — I  loved  thee.  I  loved  thee,  for 
the  first  time  that  I  loved  any  one  ;  nay,  I  made  thee  love  me  in 
turn  ;  and,  alas!  I  gave  myself  into  thine  arms.  It  was  wrong. 
I  was  foolish  ;  I  was  wicked.  I  grant  that  I  have  deserved  thou 
shouldst  think  ill  of  me,  that  thou  shouldst  punish  me,  and  quit 
me,  and  hate  to  have  any  remembrance  of  this  place  which  I  had 
filled  with  delights.  Go  ;  pass  over  the  seas  ;  make  war  against 
my  friends  and  my  country  ;  destroy  us  all,  and  the  religion  we 
believe  in.  Alas  !  '  zee'  do  I  say  ?  It  is  mine  no  longer — 0  thou, 
the  cruel  idol  of  my  soul.  Oh,  let  me  go  with  thee,  if  it  be  but 
as  thy  servant,  thy  slave.  Let  the  conqueror  take  with  him  his 
captive  ;  let  her  be  mocked  ;  let  her  be  pointed  at ;  only  let  her 
be  with  thee.  I  will  cut  off  these  tresses,  which  no  longer  please 
thee  :  I  will  clothe  myself  in  other  attire,  and  go  with  thee  into 
the  battle.  I  have  courage  and  strength  enough  to  bear  thy  lance, 
to  lead  thy  spare-horse,  and  be,  above  all,  thy  shield-bearer — thy 
shield.  Nothing  shall  touch  thee  but  through  me — through  this 
bosom,  Rinaldo.  Perhaps  mischance  may  spare  thee  for  its  sake. 
Not  a  word  ?  not  a  little  word  ?  Do  I  dare  to  boast  of  what  thou 
hadst  once  a  kind  word  for,  though  now  thou  wilt  neither  look 
upon  me  nor  speak  to  me  ?"     i 

She  could  say  no  more  :  her  words  were  suffocated  by  a  tor- 
rent of  tears.  But  she  sought  to  take  his  hand,  to  arrest  him  by 
his  mantle — in  vain.  He  could  scarcely,  it  is  true,  restrain  his 
tears':  but  he  did.  He  looked  sorrowful,  but  composed  ;  and  at 
length  he  said  :  "  Armida,  would  I  could  do  as  thou  wishest ;  but 
I  cannot.  I  would  relieve  thee  instantly  of  all  this  tumult  of 
emotion.     No  hate  is  there  in  him  that  must  quit  thee  ;  no  such 


RINALDO   AND    ARMIDA.  .  500 


disdain  as  thou  fanciest ;  ni^thing  but  tlie  niclanclioly  and  inipot- 
uous  sense  of  iiis  duty.  Tiiou  iiast  erred,  it  is  true — crrnl  lj<»ih 
in  love  and  hate  ;  but  liave  I  not  erred  with  thee  ?  and  can  1  find 
excuse  wliich  is  not  found  for  tiiyself  ?  Dv-ar  and  liououred  ever 
wilt  thou  be  with  Rinaldo,  whctht-i-  in  joy  or  sorrow.  Cmint  uw, 
if  it  please  thee,  thy  ciianipion  still,  as  far  as  my  country  and  my 
faith  permit ;  but  here,  in  this  spot,  nmst  be  buried  all  else — 
buried,  not  for  my  sake  only,  but  for  tliat  of  tiiy  b/auty,  thy  wor- 
thiness, tiiy  royal  blood.  Consent  to  disparage  thyself  no  longer. 
Peace  be  witli  tiiee.  I  go  where  I  have  no  permission  to  take 
thee  with  me.     Be  happy,  be  wise.'' 

While  Rinaldo  was  speaking  in  tliis  manner,  Armida  ciianged 
colour  ;  her  bosom  heaved  ;  her  eyes  took  a  new  kind  of  fire ; 
scorn  rose  upon  her  lip.  When  he  finished,  slie  looked  at  iiini 
\vith  a  bitterness  that  rejected  every  word  he  had  said  ;  and  then 
she  exclaimed  :  "  Thou  hast  no  such  blood  in  thine  own  veins  as 
thou  canst  fear  to  deijrade.  Thy  boasted  descent  is  a  fiction : 
base,  and  brutish,  and  insensible  was  tiiy  stock.  What  being  of 
gentle  blood  could  quit  a  love  like  mine  without  even  a  tear — a 
sigh  ?  What  but  the  mockery  of  a  man  could  call  me  iiis,  and 
yet  leave  me  ?  vouchsafe  me  his  pardon,  as  if  I  had  ollended  him  ? 
excuse  my  guilt  and  my  tenderness ;  he,  the  sage  of  virtue,  and 
me,  the  wretch !  O  God  !  and  these  are  the  men  that  take  upon 
them  to  slaujjhter  the  innocent,  and  dictate  faiths  to  the  world  ! 
Go,  hard  heart,  with  such  peace  as  thou  leavest  in  this  lx)Som. 
Begone  ;  take  thine  injustice  from  my  sight  for  ever.  .My  sj)irit 
will  follow  thee,  not  as  a  help,  but  a  retribution.  I  shall  die  first, 
and  thou  wilt  die  speedily  :  thou  wilt  perish  in  tlie  battle.  Thou 
wilt  lie  expiring  among  the  dead  and  bleeding,  and  wilt  call  on 
Armida  in  thy  last  moments,  and  1  .^hall  iicar  it — yes,  I  shall 
hear  it ;   I  shall  look  for  that." 

Down  fell  Armida  on  the  ground,  senseless;  and  Rinaldo  stood 
over  her,  weeping  at  last.  Open  thine  eyes,  poor  wretch,  and 
see  him.  Alas,  the  heavens  deny  thee  tlie  consolation  !  What 
will  he  do?  Will  he  leave  thee  lying  tliere  betwixt  dead  and 
alive  ?  Or  will  lie  go — pitying  thee,  but  still  going  ?  He  goes; 
he  is  gone ;  he  is  in  the  bark,  and  the  w  ind  is  in  the  sail ;  and 


510  RINALDO  AND  ARMIDA. 


he  looks  back— ever  back ;  but  still  goes  :  the  shore  begins  to  be 
out  of  sight. 

Armida  woke,  and  was  alone.  She  raved  again,  but  it  was  for 
vengeance.  In  a  few  days  she  was  with  the  Egyptian  army,  a 
queen  at  the  head  of  her  vassals,  going  against  the  Christians  at 
Jerusalem. 


ARNALDO   AM)    AKMIDA.  51 1 


PART    THE    FIFTH 


THE   DISENCHANTMENT  OF  THE   FOREST,   AND  THE 
TAKLXG  OF   JERUSALEM,    dec. 

RiNALDO  arrived  without  loss  of  time  in  the  Christian  camp 
before  Jerusalem.  Every  body  rejoiced  to  see  the  ri<;ht  liaiui  of 
the  army.  Godfrey  gladly  pardoned  him ;  the  hermit  IVter 
blessed  him  :  he  himself  retired  to  hen  the  forgiveness  and  fa- 
vour  of  Heaven  :  and  then  he  went  straiijht  to  the  enchanted 
forest. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  tiie  forest,  instead  of  present- 
ing its  usual  terrors,  appeared  to  him  sinijularly  tranquil  and 
pleasing.  On  entering  it  he  heard  not  dreadful  thunder-claps, 
but  harmonies  made  up  of  all  sorts  of  gentle  and  lovely  sounds — 
brooks,  whispering  winds,  nightingales,  organs,  harps,  and  human 
voices.  He  went  slowly  and  cautiously,  and  soon  came  to  a 
beautiful  river  which  encircled  the  heart  of  the  wood.  A  bridge 
of  gold  carried  him  over.  He  had  no  sooner  crossed  it  than  the 
river  higher  up  suddenly  swelled  and  rushed  like  a  torrent, 
sweeping  the  bridge  away.  Tiie  harmony  meanwhile  had  be- 
come  silent.     Admiring,  but  nothing  daunted,  the  hero  went  on. 

Every  thing  as  he  advanced  appeared  to  start  into  fresh  beauty. 
His  steps  produced  lilies  and  roses ;  here  leaped  up  a  fountain, 
and  there  came  falling  a  cascade  ;  the  wood  itself  seemed  to  grow 
young  as  with  sudden  spring  ;  and  he  again  heard  the  music 
and  the  human  voices,  though  he  could  see  no  one. 

Passing  through  the  trees,  he  came  into  a  glade  in  the  heart 
of  the  wood,  in  the  centre  of  which  he  beheld  a  myrtle-tree,  the 
largest  and  most  beautiful  ever  seen  :  it  was  taller  than  a  cypress 
or  palm,  and  seemed  the  queen  of  the  forest.  Looking  around 
him,  he  observed  to  his  astonishment  an  oak  suddenly  cleave  it- 


510  RINALDO  AND   ARMIDA. 

self  open,  and  out  of  it  there  came  a  nymph.  A  hundred  other 
trees  did  the  same,  giving  birth  to  as  many  nymphs.  They  were 
all  habited  as  we  see  them  in  theatres  ;  only,  instead  of  bows  and 
arrows,  each  held  a  lute  or  guitar.  Coming  towards  the  hero 
with  joyful  eyes,  they  formed  a  circle  about  him,  and  danced  ; 
and  in  their  dancing  they  sang,  and  bade  him  welcome  to  the 
haunt  of  their  mistress,  their  loving  mistress,  of  whom  he  was  the 
only  hope  and  joy.  Looking  as  they  spoke  towards  the  myrtle, 
Rinaldo  looked  also,  and  beheld  issuing  out  of  it — Armida. 

Armida  came  sweetly  towards  him,  with  a  countenance  at 
once  grieving  and  rejoicing,  but  expressing  above  all  infinite 
affection.  "  And  do  I  indeed  see  thee  again  V^  she  said  ;  "  and 
wilt  thou  not  fly  me  a  second  time  ?  am  I  visited  to  be  consoled, 
or  to  be  treated  again  as  an  enemy  ?  is  poor  Armida  so  formida- 
ble, that  thou  must  needs  close  up  thine  helmet  when  thou  be- 
holdest  her  ?  Thou  mightest  surely  have  vouchsafed  her  once 
more  a  sight  of  thine  eyes.  Let  us  be  friends,  at  least,  if  we  may 
be  nothing  more.     Wilt  thou  not  take  her  hand  ?" 

Rinaldo's  answer  was,  to  turn  away  as  from  a  cheat,  to  look 
towards  the  myrtle-tree,  to  draw  his  sword,  and  proceed  with 
manifest  intentions  of  assailing  it.  She  ran  before  him  shrieking, 
and  hugged  it  round.  "Nay,  thou  wilt  not,"  she  said,  "thou 
wilt  not  hurt  my  tree — not  cut  and  slay  what  is  bound  up  with 
the  life  of  Armida  ?  Thy  sword  must  pass  first  through  her 
bosom." 

Armida  writhed  and  wailed ;  Rinaldo  nevertheless  raised  his 
sword,  and  it  was  coming  against  the  tree,  when  her  shape,  like 
a  thing  in  a  dream,  was  metamorphosed  as  quick  as  lightning.  It 
became  a  giant,  a  Briareus,  wielding  a  hundred  swords,  and 
speaking  in  a  voice  of  thunder.  Every  one  of  the  nymphs  at 
the  same  instant  became  a  Cyclops  ;  tempest  and  earthquake  en- 
sued, and  the  whole  air  was  full  of  ghastly  spectres. 

Rinaldo  again  raised  his  arm  with  a  more  vehement  will  ;  he 
struck,  and  at  the  same  instant  every  horror  disappeared.  The 
sky  was  cloudless  ;  the  forest  was  neither  terrible  nor  beautiful, 
but  heavy  and  sombre  as  of  old— a  natural  gloomy  wood,  but  no 
prodigy. 

Rinaldo  returned  to  the  camp,  his  aspect  that  of  a  conqueror ; 


RINALDO  AND   ARM  I  DA.  SI  3 


the  silver  wings  of  his  crest,  the  white  eaj^le,  jrlitterinf;  in  tho 
sun.  The  hermit  Peter  came  forward  to  greet  hitn  ;  a  shout  w;is 
sent  up  by  the  whole  camp  ;  Godfrey  gave  liiin  liit,di  rt'ccp- 
tion  ;  nobody  envied  him.  Workmen,  no  longor  trembling,  wore 
sent  to  the  forest  to  cut  wood  for  the  machines  of  war  ;  and  tho 
tower  was  rebuilt,  together  with  battering  rams  and  balistas,  and 
catapults,  most  of  them  an  addition  to  what  they  had  before.  The 
tower  also  was  now  clothed  with  bulls-hides,  as  a  security  against 
being  set  on  fire  ;  and  a  bridge  was  added  to  the  tower,  from 
which  the  besiegers  could  at  once  step  on  the  city  walls. 

With  these  long-desired  inviijorations  of  his  strength,  tJie  com- 
mander  of  the  army  lost  no  time  in  making  a  general  assault  on 
Jerusalem  ;  for  a  dove,  supernaturally  pursued  by  a  falcon,  had 
brought  him  letters  intended  for  the  besieged,  informing  them 
that  if  they  could  only  hold  out  four  days  longer  their  Egyptian 
allies  would  be  at  hand.  The  Pagans  beheld  with  dismay  tiie 
resuscitated  tower,  and  all  the  new  engines  coming  against  them. 
They  fought  valiantly  ;  but  Rinaldo  and  Godfrey  prevailed  ; 
the  former  being  the  first  to  scale  the  walls,  the  latter  to  plant  his 
standard  from  the  bridge.  The  city  was  entered  on  all  sides,  and 
the  enemy  diiven,  first  into  Solomon's  Temple,  and  then  into  the 
Citadel,  or  Tower  of  David.  Before  the  assault,  Godfrey  had 
been  vouchsafed  a  sight  of  armies  of  angels  in  the  air,  accompa- 
nied by  the  souls  of  those  who  had  follen  before  Jerusalem  ;  the 
latter  still  fighting,  the  former  rejoicing  ;  so  that  there  was  no 
longer  doubt  of  triumph  ;  only  it  still  pleased  Heaven  that  human 
virtue  should  be  tried. 

And  now,  after  farther  exploits  on  both  sides,  the  last  day  of 
the  war,  and  the  last  hope  of  the  Infidels,  arrived  at  the  same 
time  ;  for  the  Egyptian  army  came  up  to  give  battle  with  the 
Christians,  and  to  restore  Jerusalem,  if  possible,  to  its  late  owners, 
now  cramped  up  in  one  corner  of  it— the  citadel.  The  besiegers 
in  their  narrow  hold  raised  a  shout  of  joy  at  the  sight  ;  and  Go<l- 
frey,  leaving  them  to  be  detained  in  it  by  an  experienced  captain, 
went  forth  to  meet  his  new  opponents.  Crowns  of  Africa  and 
of  Persia  were  there,  and  the  king  of  the  Indies  ;  and  in  the  midst 
of  all,  in  a  chariot  surrounded  by  her  knights  and  suitors,  was 
Armida. 


511  RINALDO  AND   ARMIDA. 


The  battle  joined,  and  great  was  the  bravery  and  the  slaugh- 
ter on  both  sides.     It  seemed  at  first  all  glitter   and  gaiety — its 
streamers  flying,  its  arms  flashing,  drums  and  trumpets  rejoicing, 
and  horses  rushing  with  their  horsemen  as  to  the  tournament. 
Uorror  looked  beautiful  in  the  spectacle.     Out  of  the  midst  of  the 
dread  itself  there  issued  a  delight.     But  soon  it  was  a  bloody, 
and  a  turbulent,  and  a  raging,  and  a  groaning  thing.     Pennons 
down,   horses   and  men  rolling  over,  foes  heaped  upon  one  an- 
other, bright  armour  exchanged  for  blood  and  dirt,  flesh  trampled, 
and  spirit  fatigued.     Brave  were  the  Pagans  ;    but  how  could 
they  stand  against  Heaven  ?     Godfrey  ordered  every  thing  calm- 
ly like  a  Divine  mind ;  Rinaldo  swept  down  the  fiercest  multi- 
tudes, like  an  arm  of  God.     The  besieged  in  the   citadel  broke 
forth  only  to  let  the  conquerors  in.     Jerusalem  was  won  before 
the  battle  was  over.     King  after  king  fell,  and  yet  the  vanquish- 
ed did  not  fly.     Rinaldo  went   every  where  to  hasten  the  rout ; 
and  still  had  to  fight  and  slay  on.     Armida  beheld  him  coming 
where  she  sat  in  the  midst  of  her  knights  ;  he  saw  her,  and  blush- 
ed a  little  ;  she  turned  as  cold  as  ice,  then  as  hot  as  fire.     Her 
anger  was  doubled  by  the  slaughter  of  her  friends  ;   and  with  her 
woman's  hand  she  sent  an  arrow  out  of  her  bow,  hoping,  and  yet 
even  then  hoping  not,  to  slay  or  to  hurt  him.     The  arrow  fell  on 
him  like  a  toy  ;  and  he  turned  aside,  as  she  thought,  in  disdain. 
Yet  he  disdained  not  to  smite  down  her  champions  ;   and  hope  of 
every  kind  deserted  her.     Resolving  to  die  by  herself  in  some 
lonely  spot,  she  got  down  from  her  chariot  to  horse,  and  fled  out 
of  the   field.     Rinaldo   saw  the   flight ;    and  though  one  of  the 
knights  that  remained  to  her  struck  him   such  a  blow  as   made 
liim  reel  in  his  saddle,  he  despatched  the  man  with  another  like  a 
thunderbolt,  and  then  galloped  after  the  fugitive. 

Armida  was  in  the  act  of  putting  a  shaft  to  her  bosom,  in  order 
to  die  upon  it,  when  her  arm  was  arrested  by  a  mighty  grasp  ; 
and  turning  round,  she  beheld  with  a  shriek  the  beloved  face  of 
him  who  had  caused  the  ruin  of  her  and  hers.  She  closed  her 
disdainful  eyes  and  fainted  away.  Rinaldo  supports  her;  he 
loosens  her  girdle  ;  he  bathes  her  bosom  and  her  eyelids  with  his 
tears.  Coming  at  length  to  herself,  still  she  would  not  look  at 
him.     She  would  fain  not  have  been  supported  by  him.     She  en- 


RIXALDO   AND    ARMIDA  5l6 


deavouied  witli  her  weak  fin<;crs  to  undo  the  strung  onea  that 
clasped  her;  she  wept  bitterly,  and  at  lenirtii  sjHike,  but  still 
without  meeting  his  eyes. 

"  And  may  1  not,"  she  said,  '•  even  die  ?  must  i  be  followed 
and  tormented  even  m  my  last  moments?  What  mockery  of  a 
wish  to  save  me  is  this  !  1  will  not  be  watched  ;  1  believe  not  a 
syllable  of  such  pity  ;  and  I  will  not  be  made  a  sight  of,  and  a 
by-word.  I  ask  my  life  of  thee  no  longer ;  I  want  nothing  but 
death,  and  death  itself  I  would  not  receive  at  such  hands  ;  they 
would  render  even  that  felicity  hateful  :  leave  me.  1  could  not 
be  hindered  long  from  putting  an  end  to  my  miseries,  whatever 
barbarous  restraint  might  be  put  upon  me.  There  are  a  thou- 
sand ways  of  dying  ;  and  I  will  be  neither  hindered,  nor  deceived, 
nor  flattered — oh,  never  more  !" 

Weeping  she  spoke — weeping  always,  and  sobbing,  and  full  of 
wilful  words.  But  yet  she  felt  all  the  time  the  arm  that  was 
round  her. 

"  Armida,"  said  Rinaldo,  in  a  voice  full  of  tenderness,  "  be 
calm,  and  know  me  for  what  I  am — no  enemy,  no  conqueror, 
nothing  that  intends  thee  shame  or  dishonour  ;  but  thy  champion, 
thy  restorer — he  that  will  preserve  thy  kingdom  for  thee,  and  seat 
thee  in  house  and  home.  Look  at  me — look  in  these  eyes,  and 
see  if  they  speak  false.  And  oh,  would  to  heaven  thou  would'st 
be  as  I  am  in  faith.  There  isn't  a  queen  in  all  the  East  should 
equal  thee  in  glory." 

His  tears  fell  on  her  eyelids  as  he  spoke — scalding  tears  ;  and 
she  looked  at  him,  and  her  heart  re-opened  to  its  lord,  all  love  and 
worship  ;  and  Armida  said,  "  Behold  thy  handmaid  ;  dispose  of 
her  even  as  thou  wilt." 

And  that  same  day  Godfrey  of  Boulogne  waij  lord  of  Jerusa- 
lem, and  paid  his  vows  on  the  sepulchre  of  his  Master. 


4 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX. 


No.  I. 

STORY  OF  PAULO  AND  FRANCESCA. 

PosciA  ch'  i'  ebbi  il  mio  dottore  udito 
Nomar  le  donne  antiche  e  i  cavalieri, 
Pietk  mi  viuse,  e  fui  quasi  smarrito. 

I'  cominciai :   Poeta,  volentier' 
Parlerei  a  que'  duo  che  'nsieme  vauno, 
E  pajon  si  al  vento  esser  leggieri. 

Ed  egli  a  me  :   Vedrai,  quando  saranno 
Piu  presso  a  noi :  e  tu  allor  gli  prega, 
Per  queir  amor  ch'  ei  mena ;  e  quei  verranuo. 

Si  tosto  come  '1  vento  a  noi  gli  piega, 
Mossi  la  voce  :    O  anime  affannate, 
Venite  a  noi  parlar,  s'  altri  noi  niega. 

Quali  Colombo  dal  disio  chiamate, 
Con  1'  ali  aperte  e  ferme,  al  dolce  nido 
Volan  per  1'  aer  dal  voler  portate  : 

Cotali  uscir  de  la  schiera  ov'  b  Dido, 
A  noi  venendo  per  1'  aer  maligno, 
Si  forte  fu  1'  affettuoso  grido. 

O  animal  grazioso  e  benigno, 
Che  visitando  vai  per  1'  aer  perso 
Noi  che  tiguemmo  il  mondo  di  sanguigno  ; 

Se  fosse  araico  il  Re  de  1'  Universo, 
Noi  pregheremmo  lui  per  la  tua  pace, 
Poich'  hai  pietJl  del  nostro  mal  perverse. 


520  APPENDIX. 


Di  quel  ch'  udire  e  che  parlar  ti  place, 
Noi  udiremo,  e  parleremo  a  vui, 
Mentre  che  '1  vento,  come  fa,  si  tace. 

Siede  la  terra,  dove  nata  fui, 
Su  la  marina,  dove  '1  P6  discende. 
Per  aver  pace  co'  seguaci  sui. 

Amor  ch'  al  cor  gentil  ratto  s'  apprende, 
Prese  cestui  de  la  bella  persona 
Che  mi  fu  tolta,  e  '1  modo  ancor  m'  ofFende : 

Amor  ch'  a  null'  amato  amar  perdona, 
Mi  prese  ael  costui  piacer  si  forte, 
Che  come  vedi  ancor  non  m'  abbandona  : 

Amor  condusse  noi  ad  una  morte  : 
Caina  attende  chi  'n  vita  ci  spense. 
Queste  parole  da  lor  ci  fur  porte. 

Da  ch'  io  'ntesi  quell'  anime  offense, 
Chinai  '1  viso,  e  tanto  '1  tenni  basso, 
Finche  '1  poeta  mi  disse  :    Che  pense  ? 

Quando  risposi,  cominciai :    O  lasso, 
Quanti  dolci  pensier,  quanto  disio 
MenO  costoro  al  doloroso  passo  ! 

Po'  mi  rivolsi  a  lore,  e  parla'  io, 
E  cominciai :    Francesca,  i  tuoi  martiri 
A  lagrimar  mi  fanno  tristo  e  pio. 

Ma  dimmi :  al  tempo  de'  dolci  sospiri, 
A  che,  6  come  concedette  aniore 
Che  conosceste  i  dubbiosi  desiri  ? 

Ed  ella  a  me  :    Nessun  maggior  dolore, 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Ne  la  miseria  ;  e  ci6  sa  '1  tuo  dottore. 

Ma  s'  a  conoscer  la  prima  radice 
Del  nostro  amor  tu  hai  cotanto  affetto, 
Far6  come  colui  che  piange  e  dice. 

Noi  leggiavamo  un  giorno  per  diletto 
Di  Lancilotto,  come  amor  Io  strinse  : 
Soli  eravamo,  e  senza  alcun  sospetto. 

Per  piti  fiate  gli  occhi  ci  sospinse 
Quella  lettura,  e  scolorocci  '1  viso  : 
Ma  solo  un  punto  fu  quel  che  ci  vinse. 


APPENDIX.  521 


Quando  leggemmo  il  disiato  riso 
Esser  baciato  da  cotanto  amante, 
Questi  che  mai  da  me  non  sia  diviso, 

La  bocca  mi  baci6  tutto  tremante  : 
Galeotto  fu  il  libro,  e  chi  lo  scrisse  : 
Quel  giorno  piu  non  vi  leggemmo  avante. 

Mentre  clie  1'  uno  spirto  questo  disss, 
L'  altro  piangeva  si,  che  di  pietade 
I'  venni  men  cosi  com'  io  morisse, 

E  caddi  come  corpo  morto  cade. 


Translation  in  tJie  terza  rima  of  the  original. 

Scarce  had  I  learnt  the  names  of  all  that  press 
Of  knights  and  dames,  than  I  beheld  a  sight 
Nigh  reft  my  wits  for  very  tenderness. 

"  O  guide  !"  I  said,  "  fain  would  I,  if  I  might, 
Have  speech  with  yonder  pair,  that  hand  in  hand 
Seem  borne  before  the  dreadful  wind  so  light." 

"  Wait,"  said  my  guide,  "  vnitil  thou  seest  their  band 
Sweep  round.     Then  beg  them,  by  that  love,  to  stay  ; 
And  they  will  come,  and  hover  where  wo  stand." 

Anon  the  whirlwind  flung  them  round  that  way  ; 
And  then  I  cried,  "  Oh,  if  I  ask  nought  ill, 
Poor  weary  souls,  have  speech  with  me,  I  pray." 

As  doves,  that  leave  some  bevy  circling  still. 
Set  firm  their  open  wings,  and  through  the  air 
Sweep  homewards,  wafted  by  their  pure  good- will ; 

So  broke  from  Dido's  flock  that  gentle  pair, 
Cleaving,  to  where  we  stood,  the  air  malign  ; 
Such  strength  to  bring  them  had  a  loving  prayer. 

The  female  spoke.     "  O  living  soul  benign  !" 
She  said,  "  thus,  in  this  lost  air,  visiting 
Us  who  with  blood  stain'd  the  sweet  earth  divine  ; 

Had  we  a  friend  in  heaven's  eternal  King, 
We  would  beseech  him  keep  thy  conscience  clew, 
Since  to  our  anguish  thou  dost  pity  bring. 


522  APPENDIX. 


Of  what  it  pleaseth  thee  to  speak  and  hear, 
To  that  we  also,  till  this  kill  be  o'er 
That  falleth  now,  will  speak  and  will  give  ear. 

The  place  where  I  was  born  is  on  the  shore, '^* 
Where  Po  brings  all  his  rivers  to  depart 
In  peace,  and  fuse  them  with  the  ocean  floor. 

Love,  that  soon  kiudleth  in  a  gentle  heart, 
Seized  him  thou  look'st  on  for  the  form  and  face. 
Whose  end  still  haunts  me  like  a  rankling  dart. 

Love,  which  by  love  will  be  denied  no  grace, 
Gave  me  a  transport  in  my  turn  so  true, 
That  lo  !  'tis  with  me,  even  in  this  place. 

Love  brought  us  to  one  grave.     The  hand  that  slew 
Is  doom'd  to  mourn  us  in  the  pit  of  Cain." 
Such  were  the  words  that  told  me  of  those  two. 

Downcast  I  stood,  looking  so  full  of  pain 
To  think  how  hard  and  sad  a  case  it  was, 
That  my  guide  ask'd  what  held  me  in  that  vein. 

His  voice  aroused  me  ;  and  I  said,  "  Alas  ! 
All  their  sweet  thoughts  then,  all  the  steps  that  led 
To  love,  but  brought  them  to  this  dolorous  pass." 

Then  turning  my  sad  eyes  to  theirs,  I  said, 
"  Francesca,  see — these  human  cheeks  are  wet — 
Truer  and  sadder  tears  were  never  shed. 

But  tell  me.     At  the  time  when  sighs  were  sweet, 
What  made  thee  strive  no  longer  ? — hurried  thee 
To  the  last  step  where  bliss  and  sorrow  meet  ?" 

"  There  is  no  greater  sorrow,"  answered  she, 
"  And  this  thy  teacher  here  knoweth  full  well, 
Than  calling  to  mind  joy  in  misery. 

But  since  thy  wish  be  great  to  hear  us  tell 
How  we  lost  all  but  love,  tell  it  I  will. 
As  well  as  tears  will  let  me.     It  befel, 

One  day,  we  read  how  Lancelot  gazed  his  fill 
At  her  he  loved,  and  what  his  lady  said. 
We  were  alone,  thinking  of  nothing  ill. 

Oft  were  our  eyes  suspended  as  we  read, 
And  in  our  cheeks  the  colour  went  and  came  ; 
Yet  one  sole  passage  struck  resistance  dead. 


APPENDIX.  503 


'Twas  where  the  lover,  moth-like  in  his  flame, 
Drawn  by  her  sweet  smile,  kiss'd  it.  O  then,  he 
Whose  lot  and  mine  are  now  for  aye  the  same, 

All  in  a  tremble,  on  the  moutli  kiss'd  me. 
The  book  did  all.     Our  hearts  within  us  burn'd 
Through  that  alone.     That  day  no  more  read  wc." 

While  thus  one  spoke,  the  other  spirit  moum'd 
With  wail  so  woful,  that  at  his  remorse 
I  felt  as  though  I  should  have  died.     I  turned 

Stone-stiiF;  and  to  the  ground  fell  like  a  corse. 


No.  II. 

ACCOUNTS  GIVEN  BY  DIFFERENT  WRITERS  OF  THE  C1RCU3ISTANCES 
RELATING  TO  PAULO  AND  FRANCESCA  J  CONCLUDING  WITH  THE 
ONLY    FACTS  ASCERTAINED. 

Boccaccio's  accoint: 
Translated  from  his  Comnientarj-  on  the  Passage. 

"  You  must  know,  that  this  lady.  Madonna  Francesca,  was  daughter  of 
Messer  Guido  the  Elder,  lord  of  Ravenna  and  of  Cer\'ia,  and  that  a  long  and 
grievous  war  having  been  waged  between  him  and  the  lords  Malatesta  of  Ri- 
mini, a  treaty  of  peace  by  certain  mediators  was  at  length  concluded  between 
them  ;  the  which,  to  the  end  that  it  might  be  the  more  firmly  established,  it 
pleased  both  parties  to  desire  to  fortify  by  rplationship ;  and  the  matter  of  this 
relationship  was  so  discoursed,  that  the  said  Messer  Guido  agreed  to  give  his 
young  and  fair  daughter  in  marriage  to  Gianciotto,  the  son  of  Messer  Mala- 
testa. Now,  this  being  made  known  to  certain  of  the  friend;?  of  Messer  Guido, 
one  of  them  said  to  him,  '  Take  care  what  you  do :  for  if  you  contrive  not 
matters  discreetly,  such  relationship  will  beget  scandal.  You  know  what 
manner  of  person  your  daughter  is,  and  of  how  lofty  a  spirit ;  and  if  she  see 
Gianciotto  before  the  bond  is  tied,  neither  you  nor  any  one  else  will  have  jx)wer 
to  persuade  her  to  marry  him  ;  therefore,  if  it  so  please  you,  it  seems  to  me 
that  it  would  be  good  to  conduct  the  matter  thus  :  namely,  that  Gianciotto 
should  not  come  hither  himself  to  marry  lif  r,  but  that  a  brother  of  his  should 
come  and  espouse  her  in  his  name.' 

*'  Gianciotto  was  a  man  of  great  spirit,  and  hoped,  after  his  father's  death, 

to  become  lord  of  Rimini  ;  in  the  cont^^mplation  of  which  event,  albeit  he  was 

rude  in  appearance  and  a  cripple,  Messer  Guido  desired  him  for  a  son-in-law 

above  any  one  of  his  brothers.     Discerning,  therefore,  the  reasonableness  of 

PART  III.  '^ 


524  APPENDIX. 


what  his  friend  counselled,  he  secretly  disposed  matters  according  to  his  device  ; 
and  a  day  being  appointed,  Polo,  a  brother  of  Gianciotto,  came  to  Ravenna 
with  full  authority  to  espouse  Madonna  Francesca.     Polo  was  a  handsome  man, 
very  pleasant,  and  of  a  courteous  breeding  ;  and  passing  with  other  gentlemen 
over  the  court-yard  of  the  palace  of  Messer  Guido,  a  damsel  who  knew  him 
pointed  him  out  to  Madonna  Francesca  through  an  opening  in  the  casement, 
saying,  '  That  is  he  that  is  to  be  your  husband  ;'  and  so  indeed  the  poor  lady 
believed,  and  incontinently  placed  in  him  her  whole  affection  ;  and  the  cere- 
mony of  the  marriage  having  been  thus  brought  about,  and  the  lady  conveyed 
to  Rimini,  she  became  not  aware  of  the  deceit  till  the  morning  ensuing  the 
marriage,  when  she  belield  Gianciotto  rise  from  her  side ;  the  which  discovery 
moved  her  to  such  disdain,  that  she  became  not  a  whit  the  less  rooted  in  her 
love  for  Polo.     Nevertheless,  that  it  grew  to  be  unlawful  I  never  heard,  except 
in  what  is  written  by  this  author  (Dante),  and  possibly  it  might  so  have  bo- 
come  ;  albeit  I  take  what  he  says  to  have  been  an  invention  framed  on  the 
possibility,  rather  than  any  thing  which  he  knew  of  his  own  knowledge.     Bo 
this  as  it  may,  Polo  and  Madonna  Francesca  living  in  the  same  house,  and  Gian- 
ciotto being  gone  into  a  certain  neighbouring  district  as  governor,  they  fell  into 
great  companionship  with  one  another,  suspecting  nothing ;  but  a  servant  of  Gian- 
ciotto's  noting  it,  went  to  his  master  and  told  him  how  matters  looked  ;  with 
the  which  Gianciotto  being  fiercely  moved,  secretly  returned  to  Rimini  ;  and 
seeing  Polo  enter  the  room  of  Madonna  Francesca  the  while  he  himself  was 
arriving,  went  straight  to  the  door,  and  finding  it  locked  inside,  called  to  his 
lady  to  come  out ;  for.  Madonna  Francesca  and  Polo  having  descried  him, 
Polo  thought  to  escape  suddenly  through  an  opening  in  the  wall,  by  means 
of  which  there  was  a  descent  into  another  room  ;  and  therefore,  thinking  to 
conceal  his  fault  either  wholly  or  in  part,  he  threw  himself  into  the  opening, 
telling  the  lady  to  go  and  open  the  door.     But  his  hope  did  not  turn  out  as  he 
expected  ;  for  the  hem  of  a  mantle  which  he  had  on  caught  upon  a  nail,  and 
the  lady  opening  the  door  meantime,  in  the  belief  that  all  would  be  well  by 
reason  of  Polo's  not  being  there,  Giauciotta  caught  sight  of  Polo  as  he  was  de- 
tained by  the  hem  of  the  mantle,  and  straightway  ran  with  his  dagger  in  his 
hand  to  kill  him  ;  whereupon  the  lady,  to  prevent  it,  ran  between  them  ;  but 
Gianciotto  having  lifted  the  dagger,  and  put  the  whole  force  of  his  arm  into  the 
blow,  there  came  to  pass  what  he  had  not  desired — namely,  that  he  struck  the 
dagger  into  the  bosom  of  the  lady  before  it  could  reach  Polo  ;  by  which  acci- 
dent, being  as  one  who  had  loved  the  lady  better  than  himself,  ho  withdrew 
tho  dagger  and  again  struck  at  Polo,  and  slew  him  ;  and  so  leaving  them  both 
dead,  he  hastily  went  his  way  and  betook  him  to  his  wonted  affairs;  and  the 
next  moniing  the  two  lovers,  with  many  tears,  were  buried  together  in  the 
Fame  grave." 

The  reader  of  this  account  will  have  observed,  that  while  Dante  assumes 
the  guilt  of  all  parties,  and  puts  them  into  the  infernal  regions,  the  good-natu- 
red Boccaccio  is  for  doubting  it,  and  consequently  for  sending  them  all  to  heaven. 


APPENDIX. 


He  will  ignore  as  much  of  the  business  as  a  |rcntlfman  can  ;  boldly  doubln 
any  guilt  in  the  case  ;  says  notliing  of  the  circuin.stanco  of  tlu-  \moV.  ;  and  uf- 
firnis  that  the  husband  loved  his  wife,  and  was  inisorablc  at  having  Hluin  hor. 
Tliere  is,  however,  one  negative  point  in  common  brtwet-n  tho  two  narratorH  • 
they  both  say  nothing  of  certain  particulars  connected  with  tho  date  of  I-'ran- 
ceaca's  marriage,  and  not  a  little  qualifying  the  first  romantic  look  of  the  Hlory 

Now,  it  is  the  absence  of  these  particulars,  combined  with  tho  tradition  of 
the  father's  artifice  (omitted  perhaps  by  Dante  out  of  personal  favour),  and 
with  that  of  the  husband's  ferocity  of  character  (the  belief  in  which  Boccaccio 
did  not  succeed  in  displacing),  that  has  left  the  prevailing  imj)ressiou  on  the 
minds  of  posterity,  which  is  this: — that  Francesca  was  beguiled  by  her  father 
into  the  marriage  with  the  deformed  and  unamiable  Giovanni,  and  that  tho 
unconscious  medium  of  the  artifice  was  tho  amiable  aud  handsome  Paulo  ;  that 
one  or  both  of  the  victims  of  the  artifice  fell  in  love  with  the  other  ;  that  tlieir 
intercourse,  whatever  it  was,  took  place  not  long  after  the  marriage  ;  and 
that  when  Paulo  and  Francesca  were  slaiu  in  consequence,  they  were  young 
lovers,  with  no  other  ties  to  the  world. 

It  is  not  pleasant  in  general  to  dispel  the  illusions  of  romance,  though  Dante's 
will  bear  the  operation  with  less  hurt  to  a  reader's  feelings  than  most  ;  and  I 
suspect,  that  if  nine  out  of  ten  of  all  the  implied  conclusions  of  other  narrative* 
in  his  poem  could  be  compared  with  the  facts,  he  would  be  found  to  bo  one  of 
the  greatest  of  romancers  in  a  new  and  not  very  desirable  sense,  however  excu- 
sable he  may  have  been  in  his  party-prejudice.  But  a  romance  may  be  dis- 
placed, only  to  substitute  perhaps  matters  of  fact  more  really  touching,  by  rea- 
son of  their  greater  probability.  The  following  is  the  whole  of  what  modem 
inquirers  have  ascertained  respecting  Paulo  and  Francesca.  Future  enlargers 
on  the  story  may  suppress  what  they  please,  as  Dante  did  ;  but  if  any  ouo  of 
them,  like  the  writer  of  the  present  remarks,  is  anxious  to  speak  nothing  but 
the  truth,  I  advise  him  (especially  if  he  is  for  troubling  himself  with  making 
changes  in  his  story)  not  to  think  that  he  has  seen  all  the  authorities  on  the 
subject,  or  even  remembered  all  he  has  seen,  luitil  he  has  searched  every  cor- 
ner of  his  library  and  his  memor)-.  All  the  poems  hitherto  written  upon  this 
popular  subject  are  indeed  only  to  be  regarded  as  so  many  probable  pieces  of 
fancy,  that  of  Dante  himself  included. 


THE  ONLY  PARTICULARS  HITHERTO  REALLY  ASCERTAINED  RESPECTING 
THE  HISTORY  OF  PAULO  AND  FRANCESCA. 

Francesca  was  daughter  of  Guide  Novello  da  Polenta,  lord  of  Ravenna. 

She  was  married  to  Giovanni,  suniamed  the  Lame,  one  of  the  sons  of  Ma- 
latesta  da  Verrucchio,  lord  of  Rimini. 

Giovanni  the  Lame  had  a  brother  named  Paulo  the  Handsome,  who  was  a 
widower,  and  left  a  son. 


526  APPENDIX. 


i 


> 


Twelve  years  after  Francesca's  marriage,  by  which  time  she  had  become 
mother  of  a  son  who  died,  and  of  a  daughter  who  survived  her,  she  and  her  broth- 
er-in-law Paulo  were  slain  together  by  the  husband,  and  buried  in  one  grave. 

Two  hundred  years  afterwards,  the  grave  was  opened,  and  the  bodies  found 
lying  together  iti  silken  garments,  the  silk  itself  being  entire. 

Now,  a  far  more  touching  history  may  have  lurked  under  these  facts  than 
in  the  half-concealed  and  misleading  circumstances  of  the  received  story — long 
patience,  long  duty,  struggling  conscience,  exhausted  hope. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  may  have  been  a  mere  heartless  case  of  intrigue  and 
folly. 

But  tradition  is  to  be  allowed  its  reasonable  weight ;  and  the  probability  is, 
that  the  marriage  was  an  affair  of  state,  the  lady  unhappy,  and  the  brothers  too 
different  from  one  another. 

The  event  took  place  in  Dante's  twenty-fourth  year  ;  so  that  he,  who  looks 
BO  much  older  to  our  imaginations  than  his  heroine,  was  younger ;  and  this  ren- 
ders more  than  probable  what  the  latest  biographers  have  asserted — namely, 
that  the  lord  of  Ravenna,  at  whose  house  he  finished  his  days,  was  not  her 
father,  Guide  da  Polenta,  the  third  of  that  name,  but  her  nephew,  Guido  the 
Fifth. 


No.  III. 

STORY    OF    UGOLINO. 

Noi  eravam  partiti  gi&,  da  ello, 
Ch'  i'   vidi  duo  ghiacciati  in  una  buca 
Si,  che  I'un  capo  a  1'  altro  era  capello : 

E  come  '1  pan  per  fame  si  manduca, 
Cosi  '1  sovran  li  denti  a  l'  altro  pose 
L&,  've  '1  cervel  s'  aggiunge  con  la  nuca. 

Non  altrimenti  Tideo  si  rose 
Le  tempie  a  Menalippo  per  disdegno, 
Che  quel  faceva  '1  teschio  e  1'  altre  cose. 

O  tu  che  mostri  per  si  bestial  segno 
Odio  sovra  colui  che  tu  ti  mangi 
Dimmi  '1  perchfe,  diss'  io,  per  tal  convegno, 

Che  se  tu  a  ragion  di  lui  ti  piangi, 
Sappiendo  chi  voi  siete,  e  la  sua  pecca, 
Nel  mondo  suso  ancor  io  te  ne  cangi, 

Se  quella  con  ch'  i'  parlo  non  si  secca. 


APPENDIX.  r,;»7 


La  bocca  sollov6  dal  fiero  pasto 
Quel  peccator,  forbendola  a'  capelli 
Del  capo  ch'  egli  avea  diretro  guasto  : 

Poi  comiuciO  :  tu  vuoi  ch'  i'  rinnovelli 
Disperato  dolor  che  '1  cuor  mi  preme 
Gia,  pur  pensando,  pria  ch'  i'  lie  favelli. 

Ma  se  le  mle  parole  esser  den  seme, 
Che  frutti  infamia  al  traditor  ch'  i'  rodo, 
Parlare  e  lagrimar  vedrai  insieme. 

I'  nou  so  chi  tu  sei,  n6  per  die  mode 
Venuto  se'  qua  giii :  ma  Fiorentino 
Mi  sembri  veramciite,  quand'  i'  t'  odo, 

Tu  de'  saper  ch'  i'  fu  '1  Conte  Ugolino, 
E  questi  1'  Arcivescovo  Ruggieri : 
Or  ti  dir6  perch'  i'  son  tal  vicino. 

Che  per  1'  eifetto  de'  suo'  ma'  pensieri, 
Fidandomi  di  lui,  io  fossi  preso, 
E  poscia  morto,  dir  non  6  mestieri. 

PerC)  quel  che  non  puoi  avere  inteso, 
Ciofe,  come  la  morte  mia  fu  cruda, 
Udirai  e  saprai  se  m  ha  offeso. 

Breve  pertugio  dentro  da  la  muda, 
La  qual  per  me  ha  '1  titol  da  la  fame, 
E  'n  che  conviene  ancor  ch'  altrui  si  chiuda, 

M'  avea  mostrato  per  lo  suo  foraino 
Piu  lune  gii,  quand'  i'  feci  '1  mal  sonno, 
Che  del  future  mi  squarciu  '1  velauie. 

Questi  pareva  a  me  maestro  e  donno, 
Cacciando  '1  lupo  e  i  lupicini  al  monte, 
Perche  i  Pisau  veder  Lucca  non  pouno. 

Con  cagne  mngre  studioso  e  conto 
Gualandi  con  Sismondi  e  con  Lanfranchi 
S'  avea  messi  dinanzi  da  la  fronto. 

In  picciol  corso  mi  pareano  stanchi 
Lo  padre  e  i  figli,  e  con  1'  agute  8cane 
Mi  parea  lor  veder  fender  li  fianchi. 

Quando  fui  desto  innanzi  la  dimane, 
Pianger  senli'  fra  '1  kouuo  i  miei  figliuoli 
Ch'  erau  con  meco,  c  dimandar  del  pane. 


528  APPENDIX. 


Ben  se'  cnidel,  se  tu  gik  non  ti  duoli 
Pensando  ci6  ch'  al  mio  cuor  s'  annunziava : 
E  se  non  piangi,  di  che  pianger  suoli  ? 

Gi^  er^m  desti,  e  1'  ora  s'  appressava 
Che  '1  cibo  ne  soleva  essere  addotto, 
E  per  suo  sogno  ciascun  dubitava, 

Ed  io  senti'  chiaver  1'  uscio  di  sotto 
A  1'  orribile  torre  :  ond'  io  guardai 
Nel  viso  a  miei  figliuoi  senza  far  motto  : 

I'  non  piangeva,  si  dentro  impietrai : 
Piangevan'  elli ;  ed  Anselmuccio  mio 
Disse,  Tu  guardi  si,  padre  :  che  hai  ? 

Per6  non  lagrimai  nfe  rispos'  io 
Tutto  quel  giorno  ne  la  notte  appresso, 
Infin  che  1'  altro  sol  nel  mondo  uscio. 

Com'  un  poco  di  raggio  si  fu  messo 
Nel  doloroso  carcere,  ed  io  scorsi 
Per  quattro  visi  il  mio  aspetto  stesso, 

Ambo  le  mani  per  dolor  mi  morsi : 
E  quel  pensando  ch'  i  '1  fessi  per  voglia 
Di  manicar,  di  subito  levorsi 

E  disser :  Padre,  assai  ci  sia  men  doglia, 
Se  tu  mangi  di  noi :  tu  ne  vestisti 
Queste  misere  carni,  e  tu  le  spoglia. 

Quet^mi  allor  per  non  fargli  piti  tristi : 
Quel  di  e  1'  altro  stemmo  tutti  muti : 
Ahi  dura  terra,  perchfe  non  t'  apristi  ? 

Posciach6  fummo  al  quarto  di  venuti, 
Gaddo  mi  si  gitt6  disteso  a'  piedi, 
Dicendo  :    Pardre  mio,  che  non  m'  ajuti  ? 

Quivi  mori :  e  come  tu  mi  vedi, 
Vid'  io  cascar  li  tre  ad  uno  ad  uno 
Tra'l  quinto  di,  e  '1  sesto :  ond'  i'  mi  diedi 

Gii  cieco  a  brancolar  sovra  ciascuno, 
E  tre  di  gli  chiamai  poich'  e  'fur  morti : 
Poscia,  piti  che  '1  dolor,  potd  '1  digiuno. 

Quand'  ebbo  detto  ci6,  con  gli  occhj  torti 
Riprese  '1  teschio  misero  co'  denti, 
Che  furo  a  1'  osso  come  d'  \m  can  forti. 


APPENDIX,  52J 


Ahi  Pisa,  vitiipcrio  do  lo  gonti, 
Del  bel  paese  Ml  dove  '1  si  suona  ; 
Poiche  i  vicini  a  to  punir  son  lenti, 

Muovasi  la  Capraja  e  lu  (iorgona, 
E  facciau  siepe  ad  Aruo  in  su  la  focc, 
Si  ch'  egli  aimieglii  iu  te  ogni  persona  : 

Che  86  'I  Coiite  Ugolino  aveva  voce 
D'  aver  tradita  te  de  le  castella, 
Non  dovei  tu  i  figliuoi  porre  a  tal  croce, 

Innocenti  facea  'I  etJi  novella  ; 
Novella  Tebe,  Uguccione,  e  '1  Brigata, 
E  gli  altri  duo  che  'i  canto  suso  appeila. 


Translation  in  the  heroic  couplet. 

Quitting  the  traitor  Bocca's  barking  soul, 
We  saw  two  more,  so  iced  up  in  one  hole, 
That  the  one's  visage  capp'd  the  other's  head : 
And  as  a  famish'd  man  devoureth  bread, 
So  rent  the  top  one's  teeth  the  skull  below 
'Twixt  nape  and  brain.     Tydeus,  as  stories  shew, 
Thus  to  the  brain  of  Menalippus  ate  : — 
"  O  thou  I"  I  cried,  "  shewing  such  bestial  hate 
To  him  thou  tearest,  read  us  whence  it  rose  ; 
That,  if  thy  cause  be  juster  than  thy  foe's, 
The  world,  when  I  return,  knowing  the  truth, 
May  of  thy  story  have  the  greater  ruth." 

His  mouth  he  lifted  from  his  dreadful  fare. 
That  sinner,  wiping  it  with  the  grey  hair 
Whose  roots  he  had  laid  waste ;  and  thus  ho  said: — 
"  A  desperate  thing  thou  askest ;  what  I  dread 
Even  to  think  of.     Yet,  to  sow  a  seed 
Of  infamy  to  him  on  whom  I  feed, 
Tell  it  I  will : — ay,  and  thine  eyes  shall  see 
Mine  own  weep  all  the  while  for  misery. 
Who  thou  may'st  bo,  I  know  not ;  nor  can  dream 
How  thou  cam'st  hither  ;  but  thy  tongue  doth  seem 
To  shew  thee,  of  a  surety,  Florentine. 
Know  thru,  that  I  was  o;ice  Count  Ugolinc, 


530  APPENDIX. 


And  this  man  was  Ruggieri,  the  archpriest. 

Still  thou  may'st  wonder  at  my  raging  feast ; 

For  though  his  snares  be  known,  and  how  his  key 

He  turn'd  upon  my  trust,  and  murder'd  me, 

Yet  what  the  murder  was,  of  what  strange  sort 

And  cruel,  few  have  had  the  true  report. 

Hear  then,  and  judge. — In  the  tower,  called  since  theu 

The  Tower  of  Famine,  I  had  lain  and  seen 

Full  many  a  moon  fade  througli  the  narrow  bars. 

When,  in  a  dream  one  night,  mine  evil  stars 

Shew'd  me  the  future  with  its  dreadful  face. 

Methought  this  man  led  a  great  lordly  chase 

Against  a  wolf  and  cubs,  across  the  height 

Which  barreth  Lucca  from  the  Pisan's  sight. 

Lean  were  the  hounds,  high-bred,  and  sharp  for  blood  ; 

And  foremost  in  the  press  Gualandi  rode, 

Lanfranchi,  and  Sismondi.     Soon  were  seen 

The  father  and  his  sons,  those  wolves  I  mean, 

Limping,  and  by  the  hounds  all  cruslrd  and  torn : 

And  as  the  ciy  awoke  me  in  the  morn, 

I  heard  my  boys,  the  while  they  dozed  in  bed 

(For  they  were  with  me),  wail,  and  ask  for  bread. 

Full  cruel,  if  it  move  thee  not,  thou  art, 

To  think  what  thoughts  then  rush'd  into  my  heart. 

What  wouldst  thou  weep  at,  weeping  not  at  this  ? 

All  had  now  waked,  and  something  seemed  amiss, 

For  'twas  the  time  they  used  to  bring  us  bread, 

And  from  our  dreams  had  grown  a  horrid  dread. 

I  listen'd  ;  and  a  key,  down  stairs,  I  heard 

Lock  up  the  dreadful  turret.     Not  a  word 

I  spoke,  but  look'd  my  children  in  the  face  : 

No  tear  I  shed,  so  firmly  did  I  brace 

My  soul ;  but  they  did ;  and  my  Anselm  said, 

'  Father,  you  look  so ! — Won't  they  bring  us  bread  V 

E'en  then  I  wept  not,  nor  did  answer  word 

All  day,  nor  the  next  night.     And  now  was  stirr'd. 

Upon  the  world  without,  another  day  ; 

And  of  its  light  there  came  a  little  ray. 

Which  mingled  with  the  gloom  of  our  sad  jail ; 

And  looking  to  my  children's  bed,  full  pale. 

In  four  small  faces  mine  own  face  I  saw.  Cj 

Oh,  then  both  hands  for  misery  did  I  gnaw ; 

And  they,  thinking  I  did  it,  being  mad 

For  food,  said,  '  Father,  we  should  be  less  sad  I    *& 

If  you  would  feed  on  us.     Children,  they  say,  ■  '"^ 

Are  their  own  father's  flesh.     Starve  not  to-day.' 


' 


ofdH 


APPENDIX.  031 


Thenceforth  they  saw  me  shake  not,  hand  nor  foot. 
That  day,  and  next,  we  all  contLnued  mute. 

0  thou  hard  Earth  I — why  opened'st  thou  not  ? 
Next  day  (it  was  the  fourth  in  oiu:  sad  lot) 

My  Gaddo  stretched  him  at  my  feet,  and  cried, 
'  Dear  father,  won't  you  help  me  ?'  and  he  died. 
And  surely  as  thou  seest  me  hero  undone, 

1  saw  my  whole  three  children,  one  by  one, 
Between  the  fifth  day  and  the  sixth,  all  die. 
I  became  blind  ;  and  in  my  misery 

Went  groping  for  them,  as  I  knelt  and  crawl'd 
About  the  room  ;  and  for  three  days  I  call'd 
Upon  their  names,  as  though  they  could  speak  too, 
Till  famine  did  what  orrief  had  fail'd  to  do." 


to 


Having  spoke  thus,  he  seiz'd  with  fiery  eyes 
That  wretch  again,  his  feast  and  sacrifice. 
And  fasten'd  on  the  skull,  over  a  groan, 
With  teeth  as  strong  as  mastiff's  on  a  bone. 

Ah,  Pisa  !  thou  that  shame  and  scandal  be 
To  the  sweet  land  that  speaks  the  tongue  of  Si,* 
Since  Florence  spareth  thy  vile  neck  the  yoke, 
Would  that  the  very  isles  would  rise,  and  choke 
Thy  river,  and  drown  every  soul  within 
Thy  loatlisome  walls.     What  if  this  Ugolin 
Did  play  the  traitor,  and  give  up  (for  so 
The  rumour  runs)  thy  castles  to  the  foe, 
Thou  hadst  no  right  to  put  to  rack  like  this 
His  children.     Childhood  innocency  is. 
But  that  same  innocence,  and  that  man's  name, 
Have  damn'd  thee,  Pisa,  to  a  Theban  fame.t 


REAL    STORY   OF    UGOLINO, 
AND  CIIAUCEr's  FEELING  RESPECTING  THE  POEM. 

Chaucer  has  told  the  greater  part  of  this  story  beautifully  in  his  "  Canter- 
bury Tales  ;"  but  he  had  not  the  heart  to  finish  it.     He  refers  for  the  conclu- 

*  Si,  the  Italian  yes.  A  similar  territorial  designation  is  familiar  to  the  reader  in  the 
word  '' Languedoc,"  meaning  lanffue  d'oc,  or  tongue  of  Oc,  which  was  the  pronuaciatiou 
of  the  oui  or  yes  of  the  French  in  that  quarter. 

t  Alluding  to  the  cruel  stories  in  the  mythology  of  Boeolia. 

8* 


532  APPENDIX. 


sion  to  his  original,  hight  "  Dant"  the  "  grete  poete  of  Itaille  ;"  adding,  that 
Dante  will  not  fail  his  readers  a  single  word — that  is  to  say,  not  an  atom  of 
the  cruelty. 

Our  great  gentle-hearted  countryman,  who  tells  Fortune  that  it  was 

"  great  cruelte 
Such  birdfes  for  to  put  in  such  a  cage," 

adds  a  touch  of  pathos  in  the  behaviour  of  one  of  the  children,  which  Dante 
does  not  seem  to  have  thought  of : 

"  There  day  by  day  this  child  began  to  cry, 

Till  in  his  father's  barme  (lap)  adown  he  lay  ; 
And  said,  '  Farewell,  father,  I  muste  die,' 

And  kissed  his  father,  and  died  the  same  day." 

It  will  be  a  relief,  perhaps,  instead  of  a  disappointment,  to  the  readers  of  this 
appalling  story,  to  hear  that  Dante's  particulars  of  it  are  as  little  to  be  relied  on 
as  those  of  the  Paulo  and  Francesca.  The  only  facts  known  of  Ugolino  are,  that 
he  was  an  ambitious  traitor,  who  did  actually  deliver  up  the  fortified  places,  as 
Dante  acknowledges  ;  and  that  his  rivals,  infamous  as  he,  or  more  infamous,  pre- 
vailed against  him,  and  did  shut  him  up  and  starve  him  and  some  of  his  family. 
But  the  •'  little"  children  are  an  invention  of  the  poet's,  or  probably  his  belief, 
when  he  was  a  young  man,  and  first  heard  the  story ;  for  some  of  Ugolino's  fellow- 
prisoners  may  have  been  youths,  but  others  were  grown  up — none  so  childish 
as  he  intimates ;  and  they  were  not  all  his  own  sons  ;  some  were  his  nephews. 

And  as  to  Archbishop  Ruggieri,  there  is  no  proof  whatever  of  his  having  had 
any  share  in  the  business — hardly  a  ground  of  suspicion  ;  so  that  historians 
look  upon  him  as  an  "  ill-used  gentleman."  Dante,  in  all  probability,  must 
have  learnt  the  real  circumstances  of  the  case,  as  he  advanced  in  years  ;  but 
if  charity  is  bound  to  hope  that  he  would  have  altered  the  passage  accordingly, 
had  he  revised  his  poem,  it  is  forced  to  admit  that  he  left  it  unaltered,  and  that 
his  "  will  and  pleasure"  might  have  found  means  of  reconciling  the  retention  to 
his  conscience.  Pride,  unfortunately,  includes  the  power  to  do  things  which 
it  pretends  to  be  very  foreign  to  its  nature  ;  and  in  proportion  as  detraction  is 
easy  to  it,  retraction  becomes  insupportable.* 

Rabelais,  to  shew  his  contempt  for  the  knights  of  chivalry,  has  made  them 
galley-slaves  in  the  next  world,  their  business  being  to  help  Charon  row  his 
boat  over  the  river  Styx,  and  their  payment  a  piece  of  mouldy  bread  and  a  fil- 
lip on  the  nose.  Somebody  should  write  a  burlesque  of  the  enormities  in  Dante's 
poem,  and  invent  some  Rabelaesque  punishment  for  a  great  poet's  pride  and 
presumption.     What  should  it  be  ? 

*  The  controversial  character  of  Dante's  genius,  and  the  discordant  estimate  formed  of 
it  in  so  many  resiiects  by  different  writers,  have  already  carried  the  author  of  this  book  so 
far  beyond  his  intended  limits,  that  he  is  obliged  to  refer  for  evidence  in  the  cases  of  Ugo- 
lino and  P^ancesca  to  Balbo,  Vita  di  Dante  (Napoli,  1840),  p.  33;  and  to  Troya,  Del  Vtltro 
AiUgorico  di  Dante  (Fiienze,  1826),  pp.  28,  32,  and  176. 


APPENDIX.  533 


No.  IV. 

PICTURE    OF    FLORENCE    IN    THE    TIME    OF    DANTe's    ANCESTORS. 

FioRENZA  dentro  da  la  cercliia  antica, 
Ond'  ella  toglie  aiicora  e  Terza  e  Nona, 
Si  stava  iu  pace  sobria  e  pudica. 

Non  avea:  catenella,  non  corouu, 
Noil  doiine  contigiate,  non  cintura 
Che  fosse  a  veder  piti  che  la  persona. 

Non  faceva  nascendo  ancor  paura 
La  figlia  al  padre,  che  '1  tempo  e  la  dotte 
Non  fuggian  quinci  e  quindi  la  misura. 

Non  avea  case  di  famitjlia  vote  : 
Non  v'  era  giiinto  ancor  Surdanapalu 
A  moetrar  ci6  che  'n  camera  si  puote. 

Non  era  vinto  ancora  Moutcmalo 
Dal  vostro  Uccellatojo,  che  com'  6  vinto 
Nel  montar  su,  cosl  sarfi  nel  calo. 

Bellincion  Berti  vid'  io  andar  cinto 
Di  cuojo  e  d'  osso,  e  venir  da  lo  spccchio 
La  donna  sua  sanza  'I  viso  dipinto  : 

E  vidi  quel  de'  Nerii  e  quel  del  Vecchio 
Esser  contenti  a  la  pelle  scoverta, 
E  le  sue  donne  al  fuso  ed  al  penuecchio. 

O  fortunate  I  e  ciaxcuna  era  certa 
De  la  sua  sejwltura,  ed  ancor  nulla 
Era  per  Francia  nel  letto  deserta. 

L'  una  vegghiava  a  studio  de  la  culla, 
E  consolando  usava  1'  idioma 
Che  pria  li  padri  e  le  madri  trustulla 

L'  ultra  traendo  a  la  rocca  la  chioma 
Favoleggiava  con  la  sua  famiglia 
Di  Trojani  e  di  Fiesole  e  di  Roma. 

Siiriu  tftiuta  allor  tal  maraviglia 
Una  Cianghella,  un  Lapo  Salterello, 
Qual  or  saria  Cinciunato  e  Comiglia. 


534  APPENDIX. 


Translation  in  blank  verse. 

Florence,  before  she  broke  the  good  old  bounds, 

Whence  yet  are  heard  the  chimes  of  eve  and  mom. 

Abided  well,  in  modesty  and  peace. 

No  coronets  had  she — no  chains  of  gold — 

No  gaudy  sandals — no  rich  girdles  rare 

That  caught  the  eye  more  than  the  person  did. 

Fathers  then  feared  no  daughter's  birth  for  dread 

Of  wantons  courting  wealth  ;  nor  were  their  homes 

Emptied  with  exile.     Chamberers  had  not  shewn 

What  they  could  dare,  to  prove  their  scorn  of  shame. 

Your  neighbouring  uplands  then  beheld  no  towers 

Prouder  than  Rome's,  only  to  know  worse  fall. 

I  saw  Bellincion  Berti  walk  abroad 

Girt  with  a  thong  of  leather  ;  and  his  wife 

Come  from  the  glass  without  a  painted  face. 

Nerlis  I  saw,  and  Vecchios,  and  the  like. 

In  doublets  without  cloaks  ;  and  their  good  dames 

Contented  while  they  spun.     Blest  women  those  I 

They  knew  the  place  where  they  should  lie  when  dead ; 

Nor  were  their  beds  deserted  while  they  liv'd. 

They  nurs'd  their  babies ;  luU'd  them  with  the  songs 

And  household  words  of  their  own  infancy  ; 

And  while  they  drew  the  distaff's  hair  away, 

In  the  sweet  bosoms  of  their  families, 

Told  tales  of  Troy,  and  Fiesole,  and  Rome. 

It  had  been  then  as  marvellous  to  see 

A  man  of  Lapo  Salterello's  sort, 

Or  woman  like  Cianghella,  as  to  find 

A  Cincinnatus  or  Cornelia  now. 


APPENDIX.  535 


No.   V. 


THE   DEATH   OF   AGRICAN. 


BOIARDO. 

Orlando  ed  Ajjricane  un'  altra  fiata 
Ripreso  insicme  avcan  crudel  battaglia, 

La  piu  tcrribil  inai  non  fu  mirata, 

L'  arme  1'  un  1'  altro  a  pezzo  a  pezzo  taglia. 

Vedc  African  sua  gente  sbarattata, 
Ne  le  ]iu5  dar  aiuto,  che  le  vaglia. 

Pcr6  che  Orlando  tanto  strctto  il  ticne, 

Che  star  con  seco  a  fronte  gU  conviene. 

Ncl  suo  sogreto  f6  questo  pensiero, 

Trar  fuor  di  schiera  quel  Conte  gagliardo  ; 

E  poi  che  ucciso  1'  abbia  in  su  '1  sentiero, 
Tornare  a  la  battasrlia  senza  tardo ; 

Per6  che  a  lui  par  facile  e  leggicro 
Cacciar  soletto  quel  popol  codardo  ; 

Ch6  tutti  insicme,  e  '1  suo  Re  Galafrone, 

Non  li  stimava  quanto  un  vil  bottonc. 

Con  tal  proposto  si  pone  a  fuggire, 
Forte  correndo  sopra  la  pianura ; 

II  Conte  nulla  pensa  a  quel  fallire, 
Anzi  crede  che  'I  faccia  per  paura. 

Senz'  altro  dubbio  se  'I  i)one  a  scguire, 
E  ii-iJi  son  giunti  ad  una  selva  scura : 

Appunto  in  mezzo  a  quella  selva  plana, 

Era  un  bel  prato  intorno  a  una  fontana. 

Fermossi  ivi  Agric^ne  a  quella  fonte, 
E  smonto  de  1'  arcion  per  riposare, 

Ma  non  si  tolse  1'  elmo  da  la  fronte, 
N6  piastra,  o  scudo  si  volse  levare ; 


536  APPENDIX. 


E  poco  dimor6,  che  giunse  '1  Conte, 
E  come  il  vide  a  la  fonte  aspettare, 
Dissegli :   Cavalier,  tu  sei  fuggito, 
E  si  forte  mostravi  e  tanto  ardito ! 

Come  tanta  vergogna  puoi  soffrire, 
A  dar  le  spalle  ad  un  sol  cavaliero ! 

Forse  credesti  la  morte  fuggire, 
Or  vedi  che  fallito  hai  il  pensiero ; 

Chi  morir  pu6  onorato  dee  morire ; 
Che  spesse  volte  avxiene  e  di  leggiero, 

Che,  per  durar  in  questa  vita  trista, 

Morte  e  vergogna  ad  un  tratto  s'  acquista. 

Agrican  prima  rimont6  in  arcione, 

Poi  con  voce  soave  rispondia : 
Tu  sei  per  certo  il  piti  franco  Barone, 

Ch'  io  mai  trovassi  ne  la  vita  mia, 
E  per6  del  tuo  scampo  fia  cagione 

La  tua  prodezza  e  quella  cortesia, 
Che  oggi  si  grande  al  campo  usato  m'  hai, 
Quando  soccorso  a  mia  gente  donai. 

Per6  ti  voglio  la  vita  lasciare, 

Ma  non  tornasti  piti  per  darmi  inciampo. 
Questo  la  fuga  mi  fe  simulare, 

N6  v'  ebbi  altro  partito  a  darti  scampo. 
Se  pur  ti  place  meco  battagliare, 

Morto  ne  rimarrai  su  questo  campo ; 
Ma  siami  testimonio  il  cielo  e  '1  sole, 
Che  darti  morte  mi  displace  e  duole. 

n  Conte  gli  rispose  molto  umano, 
Perche  avea  preso  gi&.  di  lui  pietate ; 

Gluanto  sei,  disse,  piix  franco  e  soprano, 
Pill  di  te  mi  rincresce  in  veritate, 

Che  sarai  morto,  e  non  sei  Cristiano, 
Ed  anderai  tra  1'  anime  dannate ; 

Ma  se  vuoi  il  corpo  e  l'  anima  salvare, 

Piglia  battesmo,  e  lascierotti  andare. 

Disse  Agricane,  e  riguardollo  in  viso : 
Se  tu  sei  Cristiano,  Orlando  sei. 

Chi  mi  facesse  Re  del  Paradiso, 
Con  tal  Ventura  non  la  cangierei ; 

Ma  sin  or  ti  ricordo  e  dotti  awiso, 
Che  non  mi  parU  de'  fatti  de'  Dei, 

Perchfe  potresti  predicar  invano  ; 

Difenda  il  suo  ciascun  co  '1  brando  n  mano. 


APPENDIX.  537 


Ne  pit!  parole ;  ma  trasse  Tranchera, 
E  verso  Orlando  con  arclir  s'  aflfronta. 

Or  si  comincia  la  battaglia  fiera, 

Con  aspri  colpi,  di  taglio  e  di  ponta; 

Ciascun  6  di  prodezza  una  luroiera, 
E  sterno  msieme,  com'  il  libro  conta, 

Da  mezzo  giorno  insino  a  notte  scura, 

Sempre  piu  franchi  a  la  battaglia  dura. 

Ma  poi  che  '1  sol  avea  passato  il  monte 
E  cominciossi  a  far  il  ciel  stellato, 

Prima  verso  del  Re  parlava  il  Conte ; 

Che  farem,  disse,  che  '1  giorno  n'  6  andato  ? 

Disse  Agricane,  con  parole  pronte : 
Ambi  ci  poseremo  in  questo  prato, 

E  domattina,  come  il  giorno  appare, 

Ritorneremo  insieme  a  battagliare. 

Cosi  d'  accordo  il  partito  si  prese ; 

Lega  il  destrier  ciascun  come  gli  place, 
Poi  sopra  a  1'  erba  verde  si  distese : 

Come  fosse  tra  Inro  antica  pace, 
L'  uno  a  1'  altro  vicino  era  e  palese. 

Orlando  presso  al  fonte  isteso  giace, 
Ed  Agricane  al  bosco  piii  vicino 
Stassi  colcato,  a  1'  ombra  d'  un  gran  pino. 

E  ragionando  insieme  tutta  via 
Di  cose  decrne  e  condecenti  a  loro, 

Guardava  il  Conte  il  ciel,  poscia  dicia: 

Q,uesto  che  ora  veggiamo,  6  un  bel  lavoro, 

Che  fece  la  divina  Monarchia, 

La  luna  d'  argento  e  le  stelle  d'  oro, 

E  la  luce  del  giorno  e  '1  sol  lucente, 

Dio  tutto  ha  fatto  per  1'  umana  gente. 

Disse  Agricane :  lo  comprendo  per  certo, 
Che  tu  vuoi  de  la  fcdc  ragionare ; 

lo  di  nulla  scienza  son  esperto, 

N6  mai  sendo  fanciul,  volsi  imparare ; 

E  ruppi  il  capo  al  maestro  mio  per  merto ; 
Poi  non  si  p<  t6  un  altro  ritrovare, 

Che  mi  mostrasse  libro,  n6  scrittura, 

Tanto  ciascun  avca  di  me  paura. 

E  cosi  spesi  la  mia  fanciullczza. 

In  caccie,  in  giochi  d'  arrae  e  in  cavalcare ; 
N6  mi  par  che  convenga  a  gentilezza, 

Star  tutto  il  giorno  ne'  libri  a  pensare ; 


538  APPENDIX. 


Ma  la  forza  del  corpo  e  la  destrezza  d 

Conviensi  al  cavaliero  esercitare ; 
Dottrina  al  prete,  ed  al  dottor  sta  bene  ; 
lo  tanto  saccio  quanto  mi  conviene. 

Rispose  Orlando  :  lo  tiro  teco  a  un  segno, 

Che  r  armi  son  del'  uomo  il  primo  onore ; 
Ma  non  gi&,  che  '1  saper  faccia  un  men  degno, 

Anzi  1'  adorna  com'  un  prato  il  fiore ; 
Ed  e  simile  a  un  bove,  a  un  sasso,  a  un  legno, 

Che  non  pcnsa  a  1'  eterno  Crcatore ; 
Nfe  ben  si  puo  pensar,  senza  dottrina, 
La  somma  maestade,  alta  e  divina. 

Disse  Agricane :  Egli  e  gran  scortesia 

A  voler  contrastar  con  avvantaggio. 
lo  t'  ho  scoperto  la  natura  mia, 

E  te  conosco,  che  sei  dotto  e  saggio ; 
Se  pill  parlassi,  io  non  risponderia; 

Piacendoti  dormir,  dormiti  ad  aggio; 
E  se  meco  parlar  hai  pur  diletto, 
D'  arme  o  d'  amor  a  ragionar  t'  aspetto. 

Ora  ti  prego,  che  a  quel  ch'  io  domando 

Risponda  il  vero,  a  ffe  d'  uomo  pregiato ; 
Se  tu  se'  veramente  quell'  Orlando, 

Che  vien  tanto  nel  mondo  nominato ; 
E  perche  qui  sei  giunto,  e  come,  e  quando ; 

E  se  mai  fosti  ancora  innamorato  ; 
Perche  ogni  cavalier,  ch'  e  senza  amore, 
Se  in  vista  e  vivo,  vivo  senza  core. 

Rispose  il  Conte  :  Quell'  Orlando  sono, 

Che  uccise  Almonte  e  '1  suo  fratel  Troiano ; 
Amor  m'  ha  posto  tutto  in  abbandono, 

E  venir  fammi  in  questo  luogo  strano, 
E  perche  teco  piti  largo  ragiono, 

Voglio  che  sappi  che  '1  mio  cor  e  in  uiano 
De  la  figliuola  del  Re  Galafrone, 
Che  ad  Albracca  dimora  nel  girone. 


Tu  fai  CO  '1  padre  guerra  a  gran  furore. 
Par  prender  suo  paese  e  sua  castella ; 

Ed  io  quh  son  condotto  per  amore, 
E  per  piacer  a  quella  damisella ; 

Molte  fiatc  son  stato  per  onore 
E  per  la  fede  mia  sopra  la  sella ; 

Or  sol  per  acquistar  la  bella  dama 

Faccio  battaglia,  e  d'  altro  non  ho  brama. 


APPENDIX.  639 


Quamlo  Atjrican  ha  nt'l  parlarc  acrolto, 
Clio  qursto  ii  Oilamlo,  cd  An^«'lica  nmavn, 

Fuor  cU  inisura  si  turbo  nol  volto, 
Ma  per  la  nottc  non  lo  diinostnua; 

Piangeva  sospirancio  come  un  stolto, 
L'  aniina  e  '1  petto  e  '1  spirto  glx  avvamjKiva, 

E  tiuito  gelosia  gli  batte  il  core, 

Che  non  6  vivo,  o  di  doglia  non  more. 

Poi  disse  a  Orlando:  Tu  del)bi  pensarc, 
Che  come  il  iiiorno  sari  dimostrato, 

Debbiamo  insicme  la  battajjlia  fare, 
E  r  luio  o  r  altro  rimarri  su  '1  prato. 

Or  d'  una  eosa  ti  voglio  prepare, 

Che,  prima  che  vegiiamo  c  cotal  piato, 

Quella  donzella,  che  "1  tuo  cor  disia, 

Tu  r  abbandoni  c  lascila  per  mia. 

10  non  potria  patire,  csscndo  vivo, 

Che  altri  con  meco  amasse  il  viso  adorno; 
O  r  uno  o  r  altro  al  tutto  sari  privo 

Del  spirto  e  de  la  dama  al  novo  giorno ; 
Altri  mai  non  sapri,  che  questo  rivo 

E  questo  bosco,  ch'  6  quivi  d'  intorno, 
Che  r  abbi  riliutata  in  cotal  loco 
E  in  cotal  tempo,  che  sori  si  poco. 

Diceva  Orlando  al  Re :  Le  mic  promesse 
Tutte  ho  scrv'ate,  quante  mai  no  fei ; 

Ma  se  quel  che  or  mi  chiedi  io  promettessc 
E  s'  io  il  giurassi,  io  non  1'  atlenderei ; 

Cosi  poria  spiccar  mic  membra  istessc 
E  levarmi  di  fronte  gli  occhi  miei, 

E  vivcr  senza  spirto  e  senza  core, 

Come  lasciar  d'  Anirelica  1'  amore. 

11  Re  Agrican,  che  ardeva  oltre  misura, 
Non  puote  tal  risposta  comportiire  ; 

Benche  sia  '1  mezzo  de  la  nottc  scura, 
Prese  Bajardo  c  su  v'  ebbo  a  montare, 

Ed  or«»'oo'lioso,  con  vista  sicura, 

IsiT-ida  al  Conte,  cd  ebbel  a  sfidarc, 

Dicendo  :  Cavalier,  la  d:una  gaglia 

Lasciar  convicnti,  o  far  mo<'<)  battaijlia. 

Era  gii  il  Conte  in  bu  1'  an  u)n  sahi*), 
Perch6,  come  si  mosse  il  R*'  jHJssentc,^ 

Tcmeuilo  dal  Pagan  es.>-er  tradito, 
Salto  sopra  'I  des'tricr  subilamcnte  •, 


540  APPENDIX. 


Onde  rispose  con  animo  ardito : 

Lasciar  colei  non  posso  per  niente ; 
E  s'  io  potessi,  ancora  io  non  vorria ; 
Averteia  convien  per  altra  via. 

Come  in  mar  la  tempesta  a  gran  fortuna, 

Cominciarno  I'  assalto  i  cavalieri : 
Nel  verde  prato,  per  la  notte  bruna, 

Con  sproni  urtarno  addosso  i  buon  destrieri ; 
E  si  scorgeano  al  lume  de  la  1  una,  |Pi 

Dandosi  colpi  dispietati  e  fieri, 
Ch'  era  ciascun  di  lor  forte  ed  ardito : 
Ma  piti  non  dico ;  il  Canto  e  qui  finito. 


Signori  e  cavalieri  innamorati, 

Cortesi  damio-elle  e  graziose, 
Venite  qui  davanti,  ed  ascoltati 

L'  alte  a\wenture  e  le  guerre  amorose, 
Che  fer  gli  antiqui  cavalier  pregiati, 

E  furno  al  niondo  degne  e  gloriose ; 
Ma  sopra  tutti  Orlando  ed  Agricane 
Ferno  opre  per  amor  alte  e  soprane. 

Si  come  io  dissi  nel  Canto  di  soprei, 
Con  fier  assalto  dispietato  e  duro. 

Per  una  dama  ciaschcdun  s'  adopra; 
E  ben  che  sia  la  notte  e  '1  ciel  oscuro, 

Gik  non  vi  fa  mestier  che  alcun  si  scuopra, 
Ma  conviensi  guardare  e  star  sicuro, 

E  ben  difeso  di  sopra  e  d'  intorno, 

Come  il  sol  fosse  in  cielo  a  mezzo  giorno. 

Agrican  combattea  con  piu  furore, 
II  Conte  con  piu  senno  si  servava ; 

G'lh  contrastato  avean  piu  di  cinque  ore, 
E  r  alba  in  Oriente  si  schiarava, 

Or  s'  incomincia  la  zuffa  maggiore ; 
II  superbo  Agrican  si  disperava, 

Che  tanto  contra  d'  esso  Orlando  dura, 

E  mena  un  colpo  fiero  oltra  misura. 

Giunsc  a  traverso  il  colpo  disperato, 

E  '1  scudo  com'  un  latte  al  mezzo  taglia ; 

Piagar  non  puote  Orlando,  ch'  6  affatato. 
Ma  fracassa  ad  un  punto  piastra  e  maglia. 


APPENDIX.  Ml 


Non  potra  il  franco  Contc  aver  il  fmto, 

HiMichfe  Traiu'licra  sua  rarnc  non  la;;lia ; 
Fu  con  tanta  ruina  la  jx^n-ussa, 
Che  avca  fiaccati  i  ncrvi,  e  jw^stc  V  ossa. 

Ma  non  fu  fjii  per  qucsto  sbipottito, 
Anzi  colpiscc  con  majirgior  fuTciza. 

Giunsc  ncl  scuilo,  c  tutto  1'  ha  partito. 
Oirni  ])iastra  del  sheriro  e  maalia  siK-zza, 

E  nel  sini?tro  fianco  1'  ha  ferito; 
E  fu  quel  colpo  di  cotanta  asprezza, 

Che  '1  scudo  mezzo  al  prato  andO  di  netto, 

E  ben  tre  costc  gli  tagliC)  nel  petto. 

Come  rugge  il  leon  per  la  foresta, 
Allor  che  1'  ha  ferito  il  cacciatore, 

Cos!  il  fier  Agrican,  con  i)ih  tiMui»osta, 
Riinena  un  colpo  di  tropjMi  furore; 

Giunse  ne  1'  elmo,  al  mezzo  de  la  testa, 
Non  ebbe  il  Conte  raai  Ixitta  inaggiore, 

E  tanto  uscito  fe  fuor  di  conoscenza, 

Che  non  sa  s'  egli  ha  il  capo,  o  s'  egli  6  senra. 

Non  vedea  lume  per  gli  occhi  niento, 
E  r  una  e  l'  altra  onychia  tiiitinnava ; 

Si  spaventato  k   l  suo  de.strier  orrente, 
Ch'  intorno  al  prato  fuggendo  il  i>orlava ; 

E  sarebbe  caduto  veramente, 

Se  in  quella  stordigion  punto  durava  ; 

Ma  sendo  nel  cader,  pt^r  tal  cagione 

Tornt^gli  '1  spirto  e  tennesi  a  1'  aaione. 

E  venne  di  se  stcsso  vergognouo, 
Poi  che  cotanto  si  vede  avanzato. 

Com'  anderai.  diceva  <U)loroso, 
Ad  Angelica  mai,  vituiMratol 

Non  ti  ricordi  quel  viso  amoroso, 

Che  a  far  qui'sta  battaglia  t'  ha  mandate T 

Ma  chi  6  richiesto  e  induu'ia  il  suo  scr>irc, 

Servendo  poi,  fa  il  guiderdon  |M'rire. 

Presso  a  dui  giorni  ho  gife  fatto  dimora, 
Per  il  conquisto  d'  un  sol  cavaliero, 

E  seco  a  fronte  mi  ritrovo  ancora, 

Ne  li  ho  vant;'i:gio  pid  che  '1  di  primiero. 

Ma,  so  piii  in'lvigio  la  battaglia  un'  ora, 
L'  arme  abbantlono  etl  cntro  al  monastero, 

Frate  mi  faccio,  e  chiamomi  dannato, 

Se  mai  piii  brando  mi  fia  visU)  allato. 


542  APPENDIX. 

II  fin  del  suo  parlar  gia,  non  e  inteso, 
Che  batti  i  denti  e  le  parole  incocca ; 

Fuoco  rassembra  di  furore  acceso 
II  fiato,  ch'  esce  fuor  di  naso  e  bocca. 

Verso  Agricane  se  ne  va  disteso, 

Con  Durindano  ad  ambe  mani  il  tocca 

Sopra  la  spalla  destra  di  riverso; 

Tutta  ]a  taglia  quel  colpo  diverso. 

II  crudel  brando  nel  petto  dichina, 

E  rompe  il  sbergo  e  taglia  il  pancirone, 

Benche  sia  grosso  e  d'  una  maglia  fina, 
Tutto  lo  fende  insin  sotto  al  o-allone. 

Non  fu  veduta  mai  tanta  ruina ; 

Sccnde  la  spada  e  guinse  ne  V  arcione ; 

D'  osso  era  questa  ed  intorno  ferrato, 

Ma  Durindana  lo  mand5  su  '1  prato. 

Dal  destro  lato  a  l'  anguinaglia  stanca 
Era  tagliato  il  Re  cotanto  forte  ; 

Perse  la  vista,  ed  ha  la  faccia  bianca, 
Come  colui  ch'  e  gik  giunto  a  la  morte ; 

E  ben  che  '1  spirto  e  '1  anima  gli  manca, 
Chiamava  Orlando,  e  con  parole  scorte 

Sospirando  diccva  in  bassa  voce : 

lo  credo  nel  tuo  Dio,  che  mori  in  croce. 

Battezzami,  Barone,  a  la  fontana, 

Prima  ch'  io  perda  in  tutto  la  favella ; 
»  E  se  mia  vita  e  stata  iniqua  e  strana, 

Non  sia  la  morte  almen  di  Dio  ribella ; 

Lui,  che  venne  a  salvar  in  gente  umana, 
L'  anima  mia  ricoglia  tapinella ; 

Ben  mi  confesso  che  molto  peccai, 

Ma  sua  misericordia  e  araude  assai. 

Piangea  quel  Re,  che  fu  cotanto  fiero, 
E  tcnea  il  viso  al  ciel  sempre  voltato. 

Poi  ad  Orlando  disse :  Cavaliero, 

In  questo  giorno  d'  oggi  hai  guadagnato, 

Al  mio  parere,  il  piti  franco  dcstriero, 
Che  mai  fosse  nel  mondo  cavalcato ; 

auesto  fu  tolto  ad  un  forte  Barone, 

Che  nel  mio  campo  dimora  prigione. 

Io  non  mi  posso  ormai  plli  sostenire ; 

Levami  tu  d'  arcion,  Baron  accorto. 
Dell  non  lasciar  quest'  anima  perire! 

Battezzami  oramai,  che  gib,  son  morto  ! 


APPENDIX.  M3 


Se  tu  mi  lasci  a  tal  rruisa  moriro, 

Ancor  n'  anii  gran  pona  e  dist'onforto. 
Qiicsto  dioeva  c  molto  altro  parolo ; 
Oh  quanto  al  Contc  no  rincrosce  e  iluolc ! 

Egli  avea  pion  ili  lagriiuc  la  faccia, 
E  fu  smontato  in  su  la  terra  piana; 

Ricolso  il  Re  torito  ne  Ic  braccia, 

E  sopra  1  niariuo  il  pose  a  la  tbntana, 

E  di  pianger  con  scco  non  si  saccia, 
Chiedendogli  penlon  con  voce  uinana. 

Poi  battozzollo  a  1'  aoqiia  do  la  fonto, 

Pregando  Dio  per  lui  con  lo  man  gionte. 

Poco  poi  stotto,  che  T  tbbe  trovato 
Frotldo  nol  viso  e  tutta  la  jxTsona, 

Ondo  s'  a\"\-ido  ch'  ogli  era  passalo. 

Sopra  al  marmor  al  fonto  1'  abbandona, 

Cosi  com'  era  tutto  quanto  armato, 

Co  '1  brando  in  mano,  e  con  la  sua  corona. 


No.  VI. 

ANGELICA  AND  MEDORO. 

ARIOSTO. 

Seglox  gli  Scotti  ovc  la  guida  loro 
Per  r  alta  selva  alto  disdouno  mena, 

Poi  che  lasciato  ha  1'  uno  e  1'  altro  Moro, 
L'  un  morto  in  tutto,  e  I'  altro  vivo  a  j)ona. 

Giacquo  jiran  jhv.zo  11  £iiovino  Modoro, 
Spioriando  il  sanirue  da  si  larga  vena, 

Che  di  sua  vita  al  Jin  saria  vonuto, 

Se  lion  sopravcnia  chi  gli  die  aiuto. 

Gli  sopravonno  a  caso  una  donzolla, 

Avvolta  in  jxastorale  ot  uniil  voste, 
Ma  di  real  prosonzia,  e  in  \\so  Ix-lla, 

D'  alto  maniore  e  accortamonto  onestc. 
Tanto  6  ch'  io  non  nn  dissi  piii  novella, 

Ch'  a  piMia  rioonosoor  la  dovrosto; 
Quosta,  so  non  sapcto,  Ansjoiica  era, 

Del  ffran  Can  del  Catai  la  figlia  alticra. 


544  APPENDIX. 


Poi  che  '1  suo  annello  Angelica  riebbe, 
Di  che  Brunei  1'  avea  tenuta  priva, 

In  tanto  fasto,  in  tanto  orgoglio  crebbe, 
Ch'  esser  parea  di  tutto  '1  mondo  schiva : 

Se  ne  va  sola,  e  non  si  degnerebbe 
Compagno  aver  qual  piti  famoso  viva ; 

Si  sdegna  a  rimembrar  che  gi^  suo  amante 

Abbia  Orlando  nomato,  o  Sacripante. 

E,  sopra  ogn'  altro  error,  via  piu  pentita 
Era  del  ben  che  gik  a  Rinaldo  volse. 

Troppo  parendole  essersi  avvilita, 
Ch'  a  riguardar  si  basso  gli  occhi  volse. 

Tant'  arroganzia  avendo  Amor  sentita, 
Piti  lungamente  comportar  non  volse. 

Dove  giacea  Medor,  si  pose  al  varco, 

E  r  aspettb,  posto  lo  strale  all'  arco. 

Quando  Angelica  vide  il  giovinetto 
Languir  ferito,  assai  vicino  a  morte, 

Che  del  suo  Re  che  giacea  senza  tetto, 
Pill  che  del  proprio  mal,  si  dolea  forte, 

Insolita  pietade  io  mezo  al  petto 
Si  sent!  entrar  per  disusate  porte, 

Che  le  fe'  il  duro  cor  tenero  e  moUe ; 

E  piti  quando  il  suo  caso  egli  narroUe. 

E  rivocando  alia  memoria  1'  arte 
Ch'  in  India  impar5  gia,  chirurgia, 

(Che  par  che  questo  studio  in  quella  parte 
Nobile  e  degno  e  di  gran  laude  sia; 

E,  senza  molto  rivoltar  di  carte, 

Che  '1  patre  a  i  figli  ereditario  il  dia) 

Si  dispose  operar  con  succo  d'  erbe, 

Ch'  a  pill  matura  vita  lo  riserbe. 

E  ricordossi  che  passando  avea 

Veduta  un'  erba  in  una  piaggia  amena; 
Fosse  dittamo,  o  fosse  panacea, 

O  non  so  qual  di  tal  effetto  plena, 
Che  stagna  il  sangue,  a  de  la  piaga  rea 

Leva  ogni  spasmo  e  perigliosa  pena, 
La  trov6  non  lontana,  e,  quella  c6lta, 
Dove  lasciato  avea  Medor,  di6  volta. 

Nel  ritornar  s'  incontra  in  un  pastore, 
Ch'  a  cavallo  pel  bosco  ne  veniva 

Cercando  una  iuvenca,  che  gli  fuore 
Duo  di  di  mandra  e  senza  guardia  giva. 


I 

I 


APPENDIX. 


Seco  lo  trasse  ovc  pordoa  il  virrore 

Medor  col  sansxuo  oho  dol  potto  usoiva; 
E  giii  n'  avca  di  tanto  il  torroii  tiiito, 
Ch'  era  omai  presso  a  rinuinere  estinto, 

Del  palafrcno  Angolica  giu  sccse, 
E  scendere  il  pastor  sec'o  fecc  anche. 

Pesti)  con  sassi  1'  erba,  indi  la  presse, 
E  succo  ne  cavo  fra  le  man  bianche : 

Ne  la  piaga  n'  infuse,  e  no  disU^se 

E  pel  pHto  e  }iol  ventre  e  fin  a  I'  anche; 

E  fu  di  tal  virtii  questo  liquore, 

Chestagn6  il  sangue  e  gli  torn6  il  vigorc: 

E  gli  di6  forza,  ehe  potfe  salire 

Sopra  il  cavallo  che  1'  pastor  condusse. 
Non  per6  volse  indi  3Iedor  partire 

Prima  ch'  in  terra  il  suo  signer  non  fosse, 
E  Cloridan  col  Re  fe'  sepelire ; 

E  poi  dove  a  lei  piacque  si  ridusse ; 
Et  ella  per  pieti  ne  1'  umil  case 
Del  cortese  pastor  seco  rimase. 

N6,  iin  che  nol  tornasse  in  sanitade, 
Volea  partir :  cosi  di  lui  fe'  stima: 

Tanto  se  inteneri  de  la  pietade 

Che  n'  ebbe,  come  in  terra  il  vide  prima. 

Poi,  vistone  i  costumi  e  la  beltade, 
Roder  si  senti  il  cor  d'  aseosa  Hma; 

Roder  si  senti  il  core,  e  a  poco  a  poco 

Tutto  infiammato  d'  amoroso  fuoco. 

Stava  il  pa.storc  in  a.ssai  buona  e  bella 
Stanza,  nel  bosco  infra  duo  monti  piatta, 

Con  la  moglie  e  co  i  figli;  et  avea  quella 
Tutta  di  nuovo  e  poco  inanzi  fatta. 

Q,uivi  a  ]Medoro  fu  per  la  ilonzolla 
La  piaga  in  breve  a  sanit.1  ritratta; 

Ma  in  minor  tempo  si  senti  maggiorc 

Piacra  di  questa  avere  ella  nel  core. 

Assai  pid  larga  piaga  e  piu  profonda 
Nel  cor  sent!  da  non  vetluto  strale, 

Che  da'  begli  occhi  e  da  la  testa  bionda 
Di  Medoro  avventb  I'  arcier  c'  ha  I'  ale. 

Arder  si  sente,  e  sempre  il  futxo  alM)nda, 
E  piu  cura  1'  altrui  che   1  jjroprio  male. 

Di  se  non  cura ;  c  non  t  ad  altro  intenta, 

Ch'  a  riaanar  clii  lei  fere  e  tormenta. 


546  APPENDIX. 


La  sua  piaga  piu  s'  apre  e  piu  incmdisce, 
Q-uanto  piu  1'  altra  si  restringe  e  salda. 

II  giovine  si  sana :  ella  languisce 

Di  nuova  febbre,  or  agghiacciata  or  calda. 

Di  giorno  in  giorno  in  lui  belta  fiorisce : 
La  misera  si  strucjge,  come  falda 

Strugger  di  nieve  intempcstiva  suole, 

Ch'  in  loco  aprico  abbia  scoperta  il  sole. 

Se  di  disio  non  vuol  morir,  bisogna 
Che  senza  inducrio  ella  sb  stessa  ai'ti : 

E  ben  le  par  che,  di  quel  ch'  essa  agogna,    - 
Non  sia  tempo  aspettar  ch'  altri  la  'nviti. 

Dunque,  rotto  ogni  freno  di  vergogna, 
La  lingua  ebbe  non  men  che  gU  occhi  arditi ; 

E  di  quel  colpo  domandb  mercede, 

Che,  forse  non  sapendo,  esso  le  diede. 

O  Conte  Orlando,  o  Re  di  Circassia, 

Vestra  inclita  virtu,  dite,  che  giova  1 
Vostro  alto  onor,  dite,  in  che  prezzo  sia*? 

0  che  mercfe  vostro  servir  ritruova  1 
Mostratemi  una  sola  cortesia, 

Che  mai  costei  v'  usasse,  o  vecchia  o  nuova, 
Per  ricompensa  e  guidardone  e  merto 
Di  quanto  avete  gia  per  lei  sofferto. 

Oh,  se  potessi  ritornar  mai  vivo, 

Q,uanto  ti  parria  duro,  o  Re  Agricane ! 

Che  gi^  mostr6  costei  si  averti  a  schivo 
Con  repulse  crudeli  et  inumane, 

O  Ferrati,  o  mille  altri  ch'  io  non  scrivo, 
Ch'  avete  tlitto  mille  pruove  vane 

Per  questa  ingrata,  quanto  aspro  vi  fora 

S'  a  costu'  in  braccio  voi  la  vedesse  ora ! 

Angelica  a  Medor  la  prima  rosa 

CogUer  lascib,  non  ancor  tocca  inante ; 

N6  persona  fu  mai  si  avventurosa, 

Ch'  in  quel  giardm  potesse  por  le  piante. 

Per  adombrar,  per  onestar  la  cosa, 
Si  celebrb  con  ceremonie  sante 

II  matrimonio,  ch'  auspice  ebbe  Amore, 

E  pronuba  la  moglie  del  pastore. 

F6rsi  le  nozze  sotto  all'  umil  tetto 

Le  piu  solcnni  che  vi  potean  farsi ; 
E  pill  d'  un  mese  poi  stero  a  diletto 

1  duo  tranquilli  amanti  a  ricrearsi. 


APPENDIX.  517 


Piu  lungp  non  vedra  del  giovinotto 

La  donna,  n6  di  lui  potra  Hazinrsi : 
N6,  per  mai  sempre  pondeijli  dal  collo, 
Ilsuo  disir  senti&  di  lui  satullo. 

Se  stava  all'  ombra  o  sc  del  tetto  uftciva, 
Avea  dl  c  notte  il  l>ol  ijiovijjf  a  lato: 

Matino  e  sera  or  qucsta  or  qut'lhi  riva 
Cercando  andava,  o  qualche  vorde  prato: 

Nel  mezo  giomo  un  antro  li  copriva, 

Forse  non  men  di  quel  coininodo  e  grato 

Ch'  ebbcr,  fuggendo  I'  acque,  Enea  e  Dido, 

De'  lor  sccreti  testiiuonio  lido. 

Fra  piacer  tanti,  o\"unque  un  arlwr  dritto 
Vedesse  ombrare  o  foiite  o  rivo  puro, 

V  avea  spillo  o  coltel  subito  lltto ; 
Cosi,  se  v'  era  alcun  safiso  men  dure. 

Et  era  fuori  in  mille  luoghi  scritto, 
E  cosi  in  casa  in  altri  tanti  il  muro, 

Angelica  e  jMedoro,  in  varii  modi 

Legati  insicme  di  diversi  nodi. 

Poi  che  le  parve  aver  fatto  sogfjiorno 
Quivi  pid  ch'  a  bastanza,  fe'  disegno 

Di  fare  in  India  del  Catai  ritorno, 
E  jNIedor  coronar  del  suo  bel  regno. 

Portava  al  braccio  un  cerchio  d'  oro,  adorno 
Di  ricche  gemme,  in  testimonio  e  segno 

Del  ben  che  '1  Conte  Orlando  le  volea; 

E  portato  gran  tempo  ve  1'  avea. 

Quel  dono  gii  Morgana  a  Ziliante, 

Nel  tempo  che  nel  lago  ascoso  il  tenne; 

Et  esso,  poi  ch'  al  pail  re  3Iono<lantc 
Per  opra  e  per  virtu  d"  Orlando  venne, 

Lo  diede  a  Orlajido  :  Orlando  ch'  era  amantc, 
Di  porsi  al  braccio  il  cerchio  d'  or  sostenne, 

Avendo  disegnato  di  dofiarlo 

Alia  Regina  sua  di  ch'  io  vi  parlo. 

Non  per  amor  del  Pala<Hno,  quanto 
Perch'  era  ricco  e  d'  artificio  egregio, 

Caro  avuto  1'  avea  la  donna  tan  to 

Che  pit!  non  si  puo  aver  cona  di  prcgio. 

S6  lo  8crb6  ne  1'  Isola  del  pianto, 
Non  so  giJi  dirvi  con  che  privilegio, 

Lk  dove  eeposta  al  marin  mostro  nuda 

Fu  da  la  gente  inowpitale  c  cnida. 

PART  III.  ® 


548 


APPENDIX. 


Quivi  non  si  trovando  altra  mercede, 
Ch'  al  buon  pastore  et  alia  moglie  dessi, 

Che  serviti  gli  avea  con  si  gran  fede 
Dal  di  che  nel  suo  albergo  si  fur  messi ; 

Lev6  dal  braccio  il  cerchio,  e  gli  lo  diede, 
E  volse  per  suo  amor  che  lo  tenessi; 

Indi  saliron  verso  la  montagna 

Che  divide  la  Prancia  da  la  Spagna. 

Dentro  a  Valenza  o  dcntro  a  Barcellona 
Per  qualche  giorno  avean  pensato  porsi, 

Fin  che  accadesse  alcuna  nave  buona,         r^ 
Che  per  Levante  apparecchiasse  a  sciorsi. 

Videro  il  mar  scoprir  sotto  a  Girona 
Ne  lo  smontar  giti  de  i  montani  dorsi ; 

E,  costeggiando  a  man  sinistra  il  lito, 

A  Barcellona  andar  pel  camin  trito. 

Ma  non  vi  giunser  prima  ch'  un  uom  pazzo 
Giacer  trovaro  in  su  1'  estreme  arene, 

Che,  come  porco,  di  loto  e  di  guazzo 

Tutto  era  brutto,  e  volto  e  petto  e  schene. 

Costui  si  scagli5  lor,  come  cagnazzo 
Ch'  aslair  forestier  subito  viene ; 

E  di6  lor  noia  e  fu  per  far  lor  scorno. 
****** 


The  troop  then  follow'd  vi^here  their  chief  had  gone, 
Pursuing  his  stern  chase  among  the  trees, 

And  leave  the  two  companions  there  alone, 
One  surely  dead,  the  other  scarcely  less. 

Long  time  Medoro  lay  without  a  groan. 
Losing  his  blood  in  such  large  quantities, 

That  life  would  surely  have  gone  out  at  last, 

Had  not  a  helping  hand  been  coming  past. 

There  came,  by  chance,  a  damsel  passing  there, 
Dress'd  like  a  shepherdess  in  lowly  wise, 

But  of  a  royal  presence,  and  an  air 

Noble  as  handsome,  with  clear  maiden  eyes. 

'Tis  so  long  since  I  told  you  news  of  her, 
Perhaps  you  know  her  not  in  this  disguise. 

This,  you  must  know  then,  was  Angelica, 

Proud  daughter  of  the  Khan  of  great  Cathay. 


APPENDIX.  5,19 


You  know  the  mafric  ring  and  hor  distress'? 

Well,  when  she  had  recovert'd  tliis  same  ring, 
It  so  increased  lier  pride  and  haut'litiness 

She  seem'd  too  high  for  any  hvinir  tiiinir. 
She  goes  alone,  desiring  nothing  U^ss 

Than  a  companion,  even  though  a  king  : 
She  even  scorns  to  recollect  the  flame 
Of  one  Orlando,  or  his  very  name. 

But,  above  all,  she  hates  to  recollect 

That  she  had  taken  to  Rinaldo  so ; 
She  thinks  it  the  last  want  of  self-respect, 

Pure  degradation,  to  have  look'd  so  low. 
"Such  arrogance,"  said  Cupid,  "  must  he  check'd." 

The  little  god  betook  him  with  his  l)ow 
To  where  Medoro  lay  ;  and,  standing  by, 
HeH  the  shaft  ready  with  a  lurking  eye. 

Now  when  the  princess  saw  the  youth  all  pale. 
And  found  him  grieving  with  his  bitter  wound, 

Not  for  what  one  so  young  might  well  bewail, 
But  that  his  king  should  not  be  laid  in  jrround, — 

She  felt  a  something  strange  and  nentle  steal 
Into  her  heart  by  some  new  way  it  found. 

Which  touch'd  its  hardness,  and  turn'd  all  to  grace; 

And  more  so,  when  he  told  her  all  his  case. 

And  calling  to  her  mind  the  little  arts 
Of  healing,  which  she  learnt  in  India, 

(For  'twas  a  study  valued  in  those  parts 
Even  by  those  who  were  in  sovereign  sway, 

And  yet  so  easy  too,  that,  like  the  heart's, 
'Twas  more  inherited  than  learnt,  they  say), 

She  cast  about,  with  herbs  and  balmy  juices, 

To  save  so  fair  a  life  for  all  its  uses. 

And  thinking  of  an  herb  that  caught  her  eye 
As  she  was  coming,  in  a  pleasant  j)lain 

(W^hcther  'twas  panacea,  dittany, 

Or  some  such  herb  accounted  sovereign 

For  stanching  blood  quickly  and  tenderly, 
And  winning  out  all  spasm  and  l>ad  pain), 

She  found  it  not  far  off,  and  gathering  (tome, 

Returned  with  it  to  save  Medoro's  bloom. 

In  coming  back  she  met  upon  the  way 

A  shepherd,  who  was  riding  throuj^  the  wood 

To  find  a  heifer  that  had  gone  ai»tray, 
And  been  two  days  about  the  solitude. 


APPENDIX. 


She  took  him  with  her  where  Medoro  lay, 

Still  feebler  than  he  was,  with  loss  of  blood ; 
So  much  he  lost,  and  drew  so  hard  a  breath, 
That  he  was  now  fast  fading  to  his  death. 

Angelica  got  off  her  horse  in  haste, 
And  made  the  shepherd  get  as  fast  from  his ;, 

She  ground  the  herbs  with  stones,  and  then  express'd 
With  her  white  hands  the  balmy  milkiness ; 

Then  dropp'd  it  in  the  wound,  and  bath'd  his  breast. 
His  stomach,  feet,  and  all  that  was  amiss: 

And  of  such  virtue  was  it,  that  at  length 

The  blood  was  stopp'd,  and  he  look'd  round  with  strength. 

At  last  he  got  upon  the  shepherd's  horse. 
But  would  not  quit  the  place  till  he  had  seen 

Laid  in  the  ground  his  lord  and  master's  corse ; 
And  Cloridan  lay  with  it,  who  had  been 

Smitten  so  fatally  with  sweet  remorse. 
He  then  obey'd  the  will  of  the  fair  queen; 

And  she,  for  very  pity  of  his  lot, 

Went  and  stay'd  with  him  at  the  shepherd's  cot. 

Nor  would  she  leave  him,  she  esteem'd  him  so, 
Till  she  had  seen  him  well  with  her  own  eye ; 

So  full  of  pity  did  her  bosom  grow. 

Since  first  she  saw  him  faint  and  like  to  die. 

Seeing  his  manners  now,  and  beauty  too, 
She  felt  her  heart  yearn  somehow  inwardly ; 

She  felt  her  heart  yearn  somehow,  till  at  last 

'Twas  all  on  fire,  and  burning  warm  and  fast. 

The  shepherd's  home  was  good  enough  and  neat, 

A  little  shady  cottage  in  a  dell : 
The  man  had  just  rebuilt  it  all  complete, 

With  room  to  spare,  in  case  more  births  befell. 
There  with  such  knowledge  did  the  lady  treat 

Her  handsome  patient,  that  he  soon  grew  well ; 
But  not  before  she  had,  on  her  own  part, 
A  secret  wound  much  greater  in  her  heart. 

Much  greater  was  the  wound,  and  deeper  far. 

Which  the  sweet  arrow  made  in  her  heart's  strings  ; 

'Twa?  from  Medoro's  lovely  eyes  and  hair ; 
'Twas  from  the  naked  archer  with  the  wings. 

She  feels  it  now ;  she  feels,  and  yet  can  bear 
Another's  less  than  her  own  sufferings. 

She  thinks  not  of  herself:  she  thinks  alone 

How  to  cure  him  by  whom  she  is  undone. 


APPENDIX.  551 


The  more  his  wound  recovers  and  gets  ease 
Her  own  grows  worse,  and  widens  day  by  day. 

The  youth  gets  well ;  the  lady  languishes, 
Now  warm,  now  cold,  as  fitful  fevers  play. 

His  beauty  heightens,  like  the  flowering  trees ; 
She,  miserable  creature,  melts  away 

Like  the  weak  snow,  which  some  warm  sun  has  found 

Fall'n,  out  of  seasoai,  on  a  rising  crround. 

'  Do 

And  must  she  speak  at  last,  rather  than  diel 
And  must  she  plead,  without  another's  aid  1 

She  must,  she  must :  the  vital  moments  fly : 
She  lives — she  dies,  a  passion-wasted  maid. 

At  length  she  bursts  all  ties  of  modesty : 

Her  tongue  explains  her  eyes ;  the  words  are  said ; 

And  she  asks  pity,  underneath  that  blow 

Which  he,  perhaps,  that  gave  it  did  not  know. 

O  County  Orlando  !  O  King  Sacripant ! 

That  fame  of  yours,  say,  what  avails  it  ye  1 
That  lofty  honour,  those  great  deeds  ye  vaunt, — 

Say,  what's  their  value  with  the  lovely  she  1 
Shew  me — recall  to  memory  (for  I  can't) — 

Shew  me,  I  beg,  one  single  courtesy 
That  ever  she  vouchsafed  ye,  far  or  near. 
For  all  you've  done  and  have  endured  for  her. 

And  you,  if  you  could  come  to  life  again, 
O  Agrican,  how  hard  'twould  seem  to  you, 

Whose  love  was  met  by  nothing  but  disdain, 
And  \'ile  repulses,  shocking  to  go  through ! 

O  Ferragus !  O  thousands,  who,  in  vain, 

Did  all  that  loving  and  great  hearts  could  do, 
^  How  would  ye  feel,  to  see,  with  all  her  charms, 

This  thankless  creature  in  a  stripling's  arras  1 

The  young  Medoro  had  the  gathering 

Of  the  world's  rose,  the  rose  untouch'd  before; 

For  never,  since  that  garden  blush'd  with  sj)ring, 
Had  human  being  dared  to  touch  the  door. 

To  sanction  it — to  consecrate  the  thing, — 
The  priest  was  called  to  rca<l  the  service  o'er, 

(For  without  marriage  what  can  come  but  strife?) 

And  the  bride-mother  was  the  shepherd's  wife. 

All  was  perform'd,  in  short,  that  could  be  so 
In  such  a  place,  to  make  the  nuptials  good  ; 

Nor  did  the  happy  pair  think  fit  to  go, 

But  spent  the  month  and  more  within  the  wood. 


APPENDIX. 


« 


The  lady  to  the  stripUng  seemed  to  grow. 

His  step  her  step,  his  eyes  her  eyes  pursued ; 
Nor  did  her  love  lose  any  of  its  zest, 
Though  she  was  always  hanging  on  his  breast. 

In  doors  and  out  of  doors,  by  night,  by  day, 

She  had  the  charmer  by  her  side  for  ever ; 
Morning  and  evening  they  would  stroll  away, 

Now  by  some  field  or  little  tufted  river ; 
They  chose  a  cave  in  middle  of  the  day. 

Perhaps  not  less  agreeable  or  clever 
Than  Dido  and  ^neas  found  to  screen  them,  ^ji 

When  they  had  secrets  to  discuss  between  them.  "  f 

And  all  this  while  there  was  not  a  smooth  tree. 

That  stood  by  stream  or  fountain  with  glad  breath, 
Nor  stone  less  hard  than  stones  are  apt  to  be. 

But  they  would  find  a  knife  to  carve  it  with ; 
And  in  a  thousand  places  you  might  see. 

And  on  the  walls  about  you  and  beneath, 
Angelica  and  Medoro,  tied  in  one, 
As  many  ways  as  lovers'  knots  can  run. 

And  when  they  thought  they  had  outspent  their  time, 

Angelica  the  royal  took  her  way. 
She  and  Medoro,  to  the  Indian  chme. 

To  crown  him  king  of  her  great  realm,  Cathay.* 


No.  VII. 

THE  JEALOUSY  OF  ORLANDO. 

THE    SAME. 

Feron  camin  diverso  i  cavallieri, 

Di  qnh  Zerbino,  e  di  li  il  Conte  Orlando. 
Prima  che  pigli  il  Conte  altri  sentieri, 

Air  arbor  tolse,  e  a  se  ripose  il  brando ; 
E,  dove  meglio  col  Pagan  pensosse 
Di  potersi  incontrare,  il  destrier  mosse. 

Lo  strano  corso  che  tenne  il  cavallo 
Del  Saracin  pel  bosco  senza  via, 

*  This  version  of  the  present  episode  has  appeared  in  print  before.    So  has  a  portion 
f  the  Monks  and  the  Giants. 


appl:ndix.  553 


Fece  ch'  Orlando  an(l6  duo  jriorni  in  fullo, 
N6  lo  trov6,  ne  poto  iivrrni'  spia. 

Giunse  ad  un  rivo,  cljc  parea  crislnllo, 
Nc  le  cui  spondc  un  bol  pratcl  fioria, 

Di  nativo  color  viiijo  o  tiipinto, 

E  di  niolti  e  belli  arhori  distinto. 

II  mcrigge  tacea  grato  1'  orezo 

Al  duro  arinonto  ft  al  pastore  i^nudoj 

Si  che  ne  Orlando  si-ntia  aloun  ril)rc/.o, 
Che  la  corazza  avca,  1"  cliuo  o  lo  studo. 

Quivi  egli  cntr6,  per  riix)sarsi,  in  nie2o; 
E  v'  ebbe  travaglioso  albcrgo  e  crude, 

E,  pill  die  ilir  si  {)ossa,  enipio  sog^orno, 

Queir  infelicc  e  slbrtunato  giorno. 

Volgendosi  ivi  intorno,  vidi  scritti 
Molti  arbuscelli  in  su  1'  ombra>;a  riva. 

Tosto  die  fermi  v'  ebbo  gli  ocdii  e  liui, 
Fu  certo  esscr  di  man  de  la  sua  Diva. 

Questo  era  un  di  quci  lochi  gia  descritti, 
Ove  sovente  con  Medor  veniva 

Da  casa  del  paatore  indi  vicina 

La  bella  donna  del  Catai  Rcjhiia. 

Angelica  e  Medor  con  cento  notii 

Legati  insienie,  e  in  cento  lochi  vcda 

Quante  lettere  son,  tanti  son  cliiodi 

Co  i  quali  Amore  il  cor  gli  punge  c  ficde. 

Va  col  pensicr  cercando  in  niille  modi 
Non  creder  quel  ch'  al  suo  disp«nto  crede : 

Ch'  altra  Angelica  sia,  cnxler  si  sforza, 

Ch'  abbia  scritto  il  suo  nome  in  quella  srorz*. 

Poi  dice  :  Conosoo  io  pur  queste  note  ; 

Di  tal  io  n'  ho  tante  e  vc-ilute  e  lette. 
Finger  questo  Medoro  ella  si  puote; 

Forse  ch'  a  me  questo  cognoiw  inettc. 
Con  tali  opinion  dal  ver  reiiu>te 

Usando  fraude  a  »i'.  medeirno,  Ktetti- 
Ne  la  speranza  il  iiud  contrnlo  Orlando, 
Che  si  sep|)e  a  so  stesso  ir  priM-a«vi.Tndo. 

Ma  sempre  pin  rarrende  e  piu  rinuova, 
Ciuanto  8})enger  piu  rrrra,  il  rio  Monpettu; 

Come  r  inrauto  augel  che  Hi  litrova 
In  ragna  o  in  vinco  aver  dato  di  petto, 

Quanto  piu  l»atte  1'  air  r  piu  ni  prova 
Di  disbrigar.  piu  vj  si  legu  strrtto. 


554  APPENDIX. 


Orlando  viene  ove  s'  incurva  il  monte 
A  guisa  d'  arco  in  su  la  chiara  fonte. 

Aveano  in  su  1'  entrata  il  luogo  adorno 

Coi  piedi  storti  edere  e  viti  erranti. 
Quivi  soleano  al  piu  cocente  giorno 

Stare  abbracciati  i  duo  felici  amanti, 
V  aveano  i  nomi  lor  dentro  e  d'  intorno 

Piu  che  in  altro  de  i  luoghi  circonstanti, 
Scritti,  qual  con  carbone  e  qual  con  gesso, 
E  qual  con  punte  di  coltelli  iinpresso. 

II  mesto  Conte  a  pie  quivi  disease ; 

E  vide  in  su  1'  entrata  de  la  grotta 
Parole  assai,  che  di  sua  man  distese 

Medoro  avea,  che  parean  scritte  allotta. 
Del  gran  piacer  che  ne  la  grotta  prese, 

Questa  sentenzia  in  versi  avea  ridotta : 
Che  fosse  culta  in  suo  linguaggio  io  penso ; 
Et  era  ne  la  nostra  tale  in  senso : 

Liete  piante,  verdi  erbe,  limpide  acque, 
Spelunca  opaca  e  di  fredde  ombre  grata, 

Dove  la  bella  Angelica,  che  nacque 
Di  Galafron,  da  molti  in  vano  amata, 

Spesso  ne  le  mie  braccia  nuda  giacque ; 
De  la  commodita  che  qui  m'  e  data, 

Io  povero  Medor  ricompensarvi 

D'  altro  non  posso,  che  d'  ognior  lodarvi : 

E  di  pregare  ogni  signore  amante 

E  cavallieri  e  damigelle,  e  ognuna 
Persona  o  paesana  o  viandante, 

Che  qui  sua  volonta  meni  o  Fortuna, 
Ch'  air  erbe,  all'  ombra,  all'  antro,  al  rio,  alle  piante 

Dica :  Benigno  abbiate  e  sole  e  luna, 
E  de  le  nimfe  il  coro  che  provveggia, 
Che  non  conduca  a  voi  pastor  mai  greggia. 

Era  scritta  in  Arabico,  che  '1  Conte 

Intendea  cosi  ben,  come  Latino. 
Fra  molte  lingue  e  molte  ch'  avea  pronte 

Prontissima  avea  quella  il  Paladino 
E  gli  schiv6  piu  volte  e  danni  et  onte, 

Che  si  trovb  tra  il  popul  Saracino. 
Ma  non  si  vanti,  se  gia  n'  ebbe  frutto ; 
Ch'  un  danno  or  n'  ha,  che  pu6  scontargli  il  tutto. 
Tre  volte,  e  quattro,  e  sei,  lesse  Io  scritto 

Quello  infelice,  e  pur  cercando  in  vano 


APPENDIX- 


Che  non  vi  fosse  quel  chc  v'  era  scritt*) ; 

E  sempre  lo  vcdea  piu  chiaro  o  piiuio ; 
Et  ogni  volta  in  mezo  il  potto  nftlitto 

Stringers!  il  cor  sontia  con  fredda  mnno. 
Rimase  il  fin  con  gli  occhi  r  con  la  nirnt« 
Fissi  ncl  sasso,  al  sasso  indiflVronte. 

Fu  allora  per  uscir  dol  sontiinrnto ; 

Si  tutto  in  proda  del  dolor  si  lassa. 
Credctc  a  chi  n'  ha  tlitto  osjHTiincnto, 

Che  questo  e  '1  duol  chc  tutti  gli  altri  paMft. 
Caduto  gli  era  sopra  il  petto  il  mento, 

La  fronte  priva  di  baldanza,  e  bassa; 
Ne  pote  aver  (chc  '1  duol  1'  occupO  tanto) 
Alle  qucrele  voce,  o  umore  al  pianto. 

L'  impetuosa  doglia  entro  rimase, 

Che  volea  tutta  uscir  con  troppa  fretta. 

Cosi  veggian  restar  l'  acqua  ncl  vase, 
Che  largo  il  ventre  e  la  bocca  abbia  stretta ; 

Chfe,  ncl  voltar  che  si  fa  in  su  la  base, 
L'  umor,  che  vorria  uscir,  tanto  s'  affrctta, 

E  ne  1'  angusta  via  tanto  s'  intrica, 

Ch'  a  goccia  a  goccia  fuore  esce  a  fiitica. 

Poi  ritorna  in  s5  alquanto,  e  pensa  come 
Possa  esser  che  non  sia  la  cosa  vera : 

Che  voglia  alcun  cosi  infamare  il  nome 
De  la  sua  donna  e  crede  e  brama  e  spera, 

O  gravar  lui  d'  insopjwrtabil  some 
Tanto  di  gelosia,  che  sc  ne  pera; 

Et  abbia  quel,  sia  chi  si  voglia  stato, 

Molto  la  man  di  lei  bene  imitate. 

In  cosi  poca,  in  cosi  debol  8j)enie 

SvegUa  gli  spirti,  e  gli  rifninca  un  poco, 

Indi  al  suo  Brigliadoro  il  dosso  prenie, 
Dando  gii  il  sole  alia  sorella  locx). 

Non  molto  va,  che  da  le  vie  supreme 
Dc  i  tetti  uscir  vede  il  vapir  del  fuoro, 

Sente  cani  abbaiar,  muggiarr  arin.-ntoi 

Viene  alia  villa,  o  piglia  alln_  iito. 

Languido  smonta,  c  lajicia  Brig  hi  :   :  « 
A  un  discreto  garzon  che  n'  abbia  ciuu. 

Altri  il  disarma,  altri  gli  «proni  d'  oro 
Gli  leva,  altri  a  forbix  va  1'  amuiturm. 

Era  questa  la  cAsa  ovc  Medoro 
Giacque  ferito,  e  ▼'  ebbe  alta  awentur*. 


556  APPENDIX. 


Corcarsi  Orlando  e  non  cenar  domanda, 
Di  dolor  sazio  e  non  d'  altra  vivanda. 

Quanto  piii  cerca  ritrovar  quiete, 
Tanto  ritrova  piu  travaglio  e  pene ; 

Che  de  1  odiato  scritto  ogni  parete, 
Ocrni  uscio.  o^ni  finestra  vede  piena. 

Chieder  ne  vuol :  poi  tien  le  labra  chete ; 
Che  terne  non  si  far  troppo  serena, 

Troppo  chiara  la  cosa,  che  di  nebbia 

Cerca  offuscar,  perche  men  nuocer  debbia. 

Poco  ctU  giova  usar  fraude  a  se  stesso ; 

Che  senza  domandarne  e  chi  ne  parla. 
II  pastor,  che  lo  vede  cosi  oppresso 

Da  sua  tristrizia,  e  che  vorria  levarla, 
L'  istoria  nota  a  se  che  dicea  spesso 

Di  quei  duo  anianti  a  chi  volea  ascoltarla, 
Ch'  a  molti  dilettevole  fu  a  udire, 
Gl'  incoiuincib  senza  rispetto  a  dire: 

Come  esso  a  prieghi  d'  Angelica  bella, 
Portato  avea  Medoro  alia  sua  \illa ; 

Ch'  era  ferito  gravemente,  e  ch'  ella 
Cur6  la  piaga,  e  in  pochi  di  guarilla : 

Ma  che  nel  cor  d'  una  maggior  di  quella 
Lei  feri  amor :  e  di  poca  scintilla 

L'  accesse  tanto  e  si  cocente  fuoco, 

Che  n'  ardea  tutta,  e  non  trovava  loco. 

E,  sanza  aver  rispetto  ch'  ella  fosse 

Fifflia  del  maggior  Re  ch'  abbia  il  Levante, 

Da  troppo  amor  constretta  si  condusse 
A  farsi  mogUe  d'  \xn  povero  fante. 

All  ultimo  r  istoria  si  ridusse, 

Che  '1  pastor  fe'  portar  la  gemma  inante, 

Ch'  alia  sua  dipartenza,  per  mercede 

Del  buono  albergo,  AngeUca  gli  diede. 

Questa  conclusion  fu  la  secure 

Che  '1  capo  a  un  colpo  gli  levb  dal  coUo, 

Poi  che  d'  innumerabil  battiture 
Si  \ide  il  manigoldo  Amor  satollo. 

Celar  si  studia  Orlando  il  duolo ;  e  pure 
Quel  gU  fa  forza,  e  male  asconder  puollo ; 

Per  lacrime  e  suspir  da  bocca  e  d'  occhi 

Convien.  vogUa  o  non  vogUa,  al  fin  che  scocchi. 

Poi  ch'  allagare  il  freno  al  dolor  puote 
(Che  resta  solo,  e  senza  altrui  rispetto), 


appendix:.  557 


Giti  da  gli  occhi  ritrando  per  le  goto 
Sparge  un  fiume  di  lacrimo  su  "1  prtto 

Sospira  e  geme,  e  va  con  spess*-  ruoto 
Di  qui  di  la  tutto  cercando  il  IcUo ; 

E  piu  duro  ch'  un  sasso.  e  piii  pungpnU* 

Che  se  fosse  d'  urtica,  sfe  lo  sente. 

In  tanto  aspro  travaglio  gli  soccorre, 
Che  nel  mcdesmo  letto  in  cho  giaceva 

L'  ingrata  donna  vonutasi  a  porrc 
Col  suo  drudo  piu  volte  esser  dovpva. 

Non  altrinienti  or  quella  piuma  abborre 
N6  con  minor  prestezza  s6  ne  leva, 

Che  de  1'  erba  il  villan,  che  s"  era  messo 

Per  chiuder  gli  occhi,  e  vegga  il  serpe  ipprc— o 

Quel  letto.  quella  casa.  quel  pastore 
Immantinente  in  tant'  odio  gli  casoa, 

Che  senza  aspettar  luna,  o  che  1'  albore 
Che  va  dinanzi  al  nuovo  giomo,  nasca, 

Piglia  r  arme  e  il  destriero,  et  esce  fuore 
Per  mezo  il  bosco  alia  pid  oscura  firaaca ; 

E  quando  poi  gli  e  avviso  d'  caser  solo, 

Con  gridi  et  urli  apre  le  porte  al  duolo. 

Di  pianger  mai,  mai  di  <jridar  non  rcsta ; 

N6  la  notte  ne  '1  di  si  dJl  mai  pace ; 
Fugge  cittadi  e  borghi,  e  alia  foresta 

Su  '1  terren  duro  al  discoperto  giacc. 
Di  s6  si  maravitjlia  ch'  abhia  in  testa 

Una  fontana  d'  acqua  si  vivace, 
E  come  sospirar  possa  mai  tanto ; 
E  spesso  dice  a  sc  cosi  nel  pianto  ; 

Queste  non  son  piii  larrimr.  rhe  fiiorf 
Stillo  da  gh  occhi  con  si  larga  %•  :.  ■. 

Non  suppliron  le  lacrime  al  doiorr; 
Finir,  ch'  a  mezo  era  il  doiorr  a  prna 

Dal  fuoco  spinto  ora  il  vitale  umon' 

Fucge  per  quella  via  ch'  a  gli  orchi  m«r»: 

Et  e  quel  che  si  versa,  r  trarrfc  inateow 

E    1  dolore  e  la  vita  all'  ore  cmlrrme. 

Questi,  ch'  indizio  fan  del  raio  tormrnto, 
Sospir  non  sono ;  nb  i  wMpir  •on  tali. 

Quelli  han  triegua  Ulora;  io  mai  non  •*nto 
Che  1  petto  mio  men  la  sua  pena  rmnli. 

Amor,  che  m'  anle  il  cor,  fa  qur»to  vcnto, 
Mentre  dibatte  iotomo  al  fuoco  1'  alL 


558  APPENDIX. 


Amor,  con  che  miracolo  lo  fai, 

Che  'n  fuoco  il  tenghi,  e  nol  consumi  mai  ? 

Non  son,  non  sono  io  quel  che  paio  in  viso ; 

Que],  ch'  era  Orlando,  e  morto,  et  e  sotterra; 
La  sua  donna  ingratissima  1'  ha  ucciso ; 

Si,  meincando  di  fe,  gU  ha  fatto  guerra. 

10  son  lo  spirito  suo  da  lui  diviso, 

Ch'  in  questo  inferno  tomientandosi  erra, 
Accio  con  1'  ombra  sia,  che  sola  avanza, 
Esempio  a  chi  in  amor  pone  speranza. 

Pel  bosco  erro  tutta  la  notte  il  Conte ; 

E  alio  spuntar  della  diurna  fiamma 
Lo  tornO  il  suo  destin  snpra  la  fonte, 

Dove  Medoro  insculse  1'  epigramma. 
Veder  1'  ingiuria  sua  scritta  nel  monte 

L'  accese  si,  ch'  in  lui  non  rcsto  dramma 
Che  non  fosse  odio,  rabbia,  ira  e  furore ; 
Ne  piu  indugio,  che  trasse  il  brando  fuore. 

TagUo  lo  scritto  e  '1  sasso,  e  sin  al  cielo 
A  volo  alzar  fe'  le  minute  schegge. 

InfeUce  quell'  antro,  et  ogni  stelo 
In  cui  Medoro  e  Angelica  si  legge ! 

Cosi  resta,r  quel  dl,  ch'  ombra  ne  gielo 
A  pastor  mai  non  daran  piu,  ne  a  gregge : 

E  quella  fonte  gia  si  chiara  e  pura, 

Da  cotanta  ira  fu  poco  sicura : 

Che  rami,  e  ceppi,  e  tronchi,  e  sassi,  e  zolle 
Non  cesso  di  gittar  ne  le  bell'  onde, 

Fin  che  da  sommo  ad  imo  si  turboUe 
Che  non  furo  mai  piu  chiare  ne  monde ; 

E  stanco  al  fin,  e,  al  fin  di  sudor  molle, 
Poi  che  la  lena  vinta  non  risponde 

Alio  sdegno,  al  grave  odio,  all'  ardente  ira, 

Cade  sul  prato,  e  verso  il  ciel  sospira. 

Afflitto  e  stanco  al  fin  cade  ne  1'  erba, 
E  ficca  gli  occhi  al  cielo,  e  non  fa  motto ; 

Senza  cibo  e  dormir  cosi  si  serba, 
Che  '1  sole  esce  tre  volte,  e  torna  sotto. 

Di  crescer  non  cesso  la  pena  acerba, 

Che  fuor  del  senno  al  fin  1'  ebbe  condotto. 

11  quarto  di,  da  gran  furor  commosso, 
E  magUe  e  piastre  si  straccit)  di  dosso. 

Q,ui  riman  1'  elmo,  e  la  riman  lo  scudo ; 
Lontan  gli  arnesi,  e  piu  lontan  1'  usbergo : 


APPENDIX.  559 


L'  arme  sue  tutte,  in  somma  vi  concludo, 

Avean  pel  bosco  differente  albergo. 
E  poi  si  squarcii)  i  panni,  e  mostro  ignudo 

L'  ispido  ventre,  e  tutto  '1  petto  e  '1  tergo ; 
E  cominciC)  la  gran  foUia,  si  orrenda, 
Che  de  la  piu  non  sara  mai  ch'  intenda. 

In  tanta  rabbia,  in  tanto  furor  venne, 

Che  rimase  offuscato  in  ogni  sense. 
Di  tor  la  spada  in  man  non  gli  sowenne, 

Che  fatte  avria  mirabil  cose,  penso. 
Ma  ne  quella  ne  scure  ne  bipenne 

Era  bisogno  al  suo  vigore  Lmmenso. 
Quivi  fe'  ben  de  le  sue  prove  eccelse ; 
Ch'  un  alto  pino  al  primo  croUo  svelse ; 

E  svelse  dopo  il  primo  altri  parecchi, 

Come  fosser  finocchi,  ebuli  o  aneti ; 
E  fe'  il  simil  di  querce  e  d'  olmi  vecchi, 

Di  faggi  e  d'  orrfi  e  d'  illici  a  d'  abeti ; 
Quel  ch'  un  uccellator,  che  s'  apparecchi 

II  campo  mondo,  fa,  per  por  le  reti, 
De  i  giunchi  e  de  le  stoppie  e  de  1'  urtiche, 
Facchi  de  cerri  e  d'  altre  piante  antiche. 

I  pastor,  che  sentito  hanno  il  fracasso, 

Lasciando  il  gregge  sparso  alia  forcsta, 
Chi  di  qua,  chi  di  la,  tutti  a  gran  passo 
Vi  vengono  a  veder  che  cosa  e  questa. 
****** 
The  poet  breaks  off  here,  and  enters  afterwards  at  large  into  the  consequences 
of  the  maxiness  of  Orlando ;  omitted  in  this  work,  for  the  reasons  mentioned  at 
page  366. 


No.  VIII. 

THE  DEATH  OF  CLORINDA. 


TASSO. 


Ma,  ecco  omai  1'  ora  fatalo  6  giunta 
Che  '1  viver  di  Clorinda  al  suo  fin  deve. 

Spinge  egli  il  fcrro  nel  bel  sen  di  punta, 
Che  vi  s'  imraerge,  e  '1  sangue  avido  beve , 


560  APPENDIX. 


E  la  veste  che  d'  or  vago  trapunta 

Le  raammelle  stringea  tenera  e  leve 
L'  empie  d'  un  caldo  fiume.     Eila  g\h  sente 
Morirsi,  e  'I  pi6  le  manca  egro  e  languente. 

Quel  segue  la  vittoria,  e  la  trafitta 

Vergine  minacciando  incalza  e  preme : 

Ella,  mentre  cadea,  la  voce  afflitta 
Movendo,  disse  le  parole  estreme : 

Parole  eh'  a  lei  novo  un  spirto  ditta, 
Spirto  di  fe,  di  carita,,  di  speme: 

Virtu  ch'  or  Dio  le  infonde ;  e  se  rubella 

In  vita  fu,  la  vuole  in  morte  ancella : 


*) 


Amico,  hai  vinto ;  io  ti  perdon :  perdona 
Tu  ancora,  al  corpo  no,  che  nulla  pave, 

Air  alma  si :  deh  !  per  lei  prega:  e  dona 
Battesmo  a  me  ch'  ogni  mia  colpe  lave. 

In  queste  voci  languide  risuona 
Un  non  so  che  di  flebile  e  soave, 

Che  al  cor  gli  serpe,  ed  ogni  sdegno  armnorza, 

E  gli  occhi  a  lagriaiar  gl'  invoglia  e  sforza. 

Poco  quindi  lontan  nel  sen  del  monte 
Scaturia  mormorando  un  picciol  rio : 

Egli  v'  accorse,  e  1'  elmo  empi6  nel  fonte, 
E  tomb  mesto  al  grande  ufficio  e  pio. 

Tremar  senti  la  man,  mentre  la  fronte, 
Non  conosciuta  ancor,  sciolse  e  scoprio. 

La  vide,  e  la  conobbe;  e  restb  senza 

E  voce,  e  moto.     Ahi  vista !  ahi  cognoscenza  I 

Non  mori  gi&, ;  che  sue  virtuti  accolse 
Tutte  in  quel  punto,  e  in  guardia  al  cor  le  mise; 

E,  premendo  il  suo  affanno,  a  dar  si  volse 
Vita,  coll'  acqua  a  chi  col  ferro  uccise. 

Mentre  egli  il  suon  de'  sacri  detti  sciolse, 
Colei  di  gioia  trasmutossi,  e  rise : 

E  in  atto  di  morir  lieto  e  vivace, 

Dir  parea ;  S'apre  il  cielo  ;  io  vado  in  pace. 

D'  un  bel  pallore  ha  il  bianco  volto  asperso, 

Come  a  gigli  sarian  niiste  viole ; 
E  gli  occhi  al  cielo  affisa,  e  in  lei  converse 

Sembra  per  la  pietate  il  cielo  e  '1  sole ; 
E  la  man  nuda  e  fredda  alzando  verso 

II  cavaliero,  in  vece  di  parole, 
Gli  d^  pegno  di  pace.     In  questa  forma 
Passa  la  bella  donna,  e  par  che  dorma. 


APPENDIX.  561 


Come  1'  alma  gentile  uscita  ei  vcde, 
Ralleiita  quel  vigor  ch'  avea  raccolto, 

E  1'  imperio  di  s6  libero  cede 

Al  duol  gii  fattx)  impetuoso  e  stolto, 

Ch'  al  cor  si  stringe,  e  chiusa  in  breve  sede 
La  vita,  empie  di  morte  i  sensi  e  '1  volte. 

Gi&.  simile  all'  estinto  il  vivo  langue 

Al  colore,  al  silenzio,  agli  atti,  al  sangue. 

E  ben  la  vita  sua  sdegnosa  e  schiva, 
Spezzando  a  sforza  il  suo  ritegno  frale, 

La  bell'  anima  sciolta  alfin  seguiva, 
Che  poco  innanzi  a  lei  spiegava  l'  ale; 

Ma  quivi  stuol  d'  Franchi  a  caso  arriva, 
Cui  trae  bisogno  d'  acqua,  o  d'  altro  tale ; 

E  con  la  donna  il  cavalier  ne  porta, 

In  se  mal  vivo,  e  morto  in  lei  ch'  e  morta. 


No.  IX. 
TANCRED  IN  THE  ENCHANTED  FOREST. 

THE   SAME. 

Era  in  prence  Tancredi  intanto  sorto 

A  seppellir  la  sua  diletta  arnica ; 
E,  benche  in  volto  sia  languido  e  smorto, 

E  mal  atto  a  portar  elmo  e  lorica, 
Nulladimen,  poi  che  '1  bisogno  ha  scorto, 

Ei  non  ricusa  il  rischio  o  la  fatica ; 
Che  '1  cor  vivace  il  suo  vigor  trasfonde 
Al  corpo  SI,  che  par  ch'  esso  n'  abbonde. 

Vassene  il  valoroso  in  se  ristretto, 

E  tacito  e  guardingo  al  rischio  ignoto  : 

E  sostien  della  selva  il  fero  aspetto, 

E  '1  gran  romor  del  tuono  e  del  tremoto ; 

E  nulla  sbigottisce ;  e  sol  ncl  petto 

Sente,  ma  tosto  il  seda,  un  picciol  moto. 

Trapassa;  ed  ecco  in  quel  silvestre  loco 

Sorge  improvvisa  la  cittft.  del  foco. 

Allor  s'  arretra,  e  dubbio  alquanto  resta, 

Fra  se  dicendo  :  Or  qui  che  vaglion  1'  armi  1 

Nelle  fauci  de'  mostri,  e  'n  gola  a  questa 
Divoratricc  fiamraa  andri)  a  gettarmi  1 


563  APPENDIX. 


Non  mai  la  vita,  ove  cagione  onesta 

Del  comun  pro  la  chieda,  altri  risparmi ; 
Ma  ne  prodigo  sia  d'  anima  grande 
Uom  degno ;  e  tale  e  ben  chi  qui  la  spande. 

Pur  1'  oste  che  dirk,  s'  indarno  io  riedo  1 
Qual  altra  selva  ha  di  troncar  speranzal 

Ne  intentato  lasciar  vorrh  Goffredo 
Mai  questo  varco.     Or,  s'  oltre  alcun  s'  avanza, 

Forse  1'  incendio,  che  qui  sorto  i'  vedo, 
Fia  d'  effetto  minor  che  sembianza ; 

Ma  seguane  che  puote.     E  in  questo  dire 

Dentro  saltovvi :  oh  meraorando  ardire ! 

Ne  sotto  1'  arme  gicL  sentir  gli  parve 
Caldo  o  fervor  come  di  foco  intenso ; 

Ma  pur,  se  fosser  vere  fiamme  o  larve, 
Mai  pote  giudicar  si  tosto  il  senso : 

Perch^  repente,  appena  tocco,  sparve 

Quel  simulacro,  e  giunse  un  nuvol  dense, 

Che  port6  notte  e  verno ;  e  '1  verno  ancora, 

E  1'  ombra  dileguossi  in  picciol'  ora. 

Stupido  si,  ma  intrepido  rimane 

Tancredi ;  e  poich6  vede  il  tutto  cheto, 

Mette  securo  il  pie  nelle  profane 

SogUe,  e  spia  della  selva  ogni  secreto. 

Ne  piu  apparenze  inusitate  e  strane, 
Ne  trova  alcun  per  via  scontro  o  divieto, 

Se  non  quanto  per  se  ritarda  il  bosco 

Ija  vista  e  i  passi,  inviluppato  e  fosco. 

Alfine  un  largo  spazio  in  forma  scorge 
D'  anfiteatro,  e  non  e  pianta  in  esse, 

Salvo  che  nel  suo  mezzo  altero  sorge, 
Quasi  eccelsa  piramide,  un  cipresso. 

Cola  si  drizza,  e  nel  mirar  s'  accorge 
Ch'  era  di  varj  segni  il  tronco  impresso, 

Simil  a  quei,  chfe  in  vece  uso  di  scritto 

L'  antico  gi&,  misterioso  Egitto. 

Fra  i  segni  ignoti  alcune  note  ha  scorte 
Del  sermon  di  Soria,  ch'  ei  ben  possiede: 

O  tu,  che  dentro  ai  chiostri  della  morte 
Osasti  por,  guerriero  audace,  il  piede, 

Deh !  se  non  sei  crudel,  quanto  sei  forte, 
Deh !  non  turbar  questa  secreta  sede. 

Perdona  all'  alme  oraai  di  luce  prive: 

Non  dee  guerra  co'  morti  aver  chi  yiye. 


APPENDIX.  r^^-j 


Cosi  dicea  quel  motto.     Egli  era  intcnto 
Delia  brevi  parole  ai  sensi  occulti. 

Fremere  intanto  udia  contiiiuo  il  vento 
Tra  le  frondi  del  bosco  e  tra  i  virgulti ; 

E  trarne  un  suon  che  flcbilc  conconto 
Par  d'  umani  sospiri  e  di  sinirulti ; 

E  un  non  so  che  confuso  instilia  al  core 

Di  pieta,,  di  spavento-e  di  dolore. 

Pur  tragge  alfin  la  spada,  e  con  gran  forza 
Percote  1'  alta  pianta.     Oh  maravigUa ! 

Manda  fuor  sanguc  la  recisa  scorza, 
E  fa  la  terra  intorno  a  s6  vemiiglia. 

Tutto  si  raccapriccia ;  e  pur  rinforza 
II  colpo,  e  '1  lin  vederne  ei  si  consiglia. 

Allor,  quasi  di  tomba,  uscir  ne  sento 

Un  indistinto  gemito  dolente ; 

Che  poi  distinto  in  voci :  Ahi  troppo,  disse, 
M'  hai  tu,  Tancredi,  offesso :  or  tanto  basti 

Tu  dal  corpo,  che  meco  e  per  me  visse, 
FeUce  albergo  gia,  mi  discacciasti. 

Perche  il  misero  tronco,  a  cui  m'  alTisse 
II  mio  duro  destino,  ancor  mi  guasti  1 

Dopo  la  morte  gh  avversarj  tuoi, 

Crudel,  ne'  lor  sepolcri  offender  vuoi  1 

Clorinda  fui :  ne  sol  qui  spirto  umano 
Albergo  in  questa  pianta  rozza  e  dura; 

Ma  ciascun  altro  ancor,  Franco  o  Pagano, 
Che  lassi  i  membri,  a  pic  dell'  altc  mura, 

Astretto  e  qui  da  novo  incanto  e  strano, 
Non  so  s'  io  dica  in  corpo  o  in  scpoltura. 

Son  di  sensi  animati  i  rami  e  i  tronchi ; 

E  micidial  sei  tu,  se  legno  tronchi. 

Qual  infcrmo  talor,  ch'  in  sogno  scorge 
Drago,  o  cinta  di  fiammc  alta  Chimera, 

Sebben  sospctta,  o  in  parte  anco  a'  accorge 
Che  simulacro  sia  non  forma  vera, 

Pur  desia  di  fuggir,  tanto  gli  {Mjrge 
Spavento  la  sembianza  orrida  c  fera : 

Tale  il  timido  amante  appion  non  crc<lo 

Ai  falsi  inganni :  e  pur  ne  tcme,  c  cede : 

E  dentro  il  cor  gh  i  in  mode  tal  conquiso 
Da  varj  affotti,  che  »'  agghiarcia  c  trcma ; 

E  nel  moto  f)otrnte  c*!  improvviso 
Gli  cade  il  ferro :  c  '1  numco  o  in  lui  la 


564  APPENDIX. 


Va  fuor  di  s6.     Presente  aver  gli  c  avviso 

L'  offesa  donna  sua,  che  plori  e  gema : 
Ne  puo  soffrir  di  rimirar  quel  sangue, 
Ne  quci  geiniti  udir  d'  egro  che  langue. 

Cosi  quel  contra  morte  audace  core 
Nulla  forma  turbo  d'  alto  spavento ; 

Ma  lui,  che  solo  c  fievole  in  amore, 
Falsa  imago  deluse  e  van  lamento. 

II  suo  caduto  fcrro  instanto  fuorc 
Porto  del  bosco  impetuoso  vcnto, 

Sicche  vinto  partissi;  e  in  sulla  strada 

RitrovO  poscia,  e  ripiglio  la  spada. 

Pur  non  torno,  ne  ritentando  ardio 

Spiar  di  novo  le  cagioni  ascose ; 
E  poi  che,  giunto  al  sommo  Ducc,  unio 

Gli  spirti  alquanto,  c  1'  animo  compose, 
Incomincit) :  Signor,  nunzio  son  io 

Di  non  credute  e  non  credibil  cose. 
Ci()  che  dicean  dello  spcttacol  fero, 
E  del  suon  paventoso,  e  tutto  vero.    , 

Maraviglioso  foco  indi  m'  apparse, 
Scnza  materia  in  un  istante  appreso ; 

Che  sorse,  e,  dilatando  un  muro  farse 
Parve,  e  d'  armati  mostri  csser  difeso. 

Pur  vi  passai ;  chfe  nc  1'  incendio  m'  arse, 
Ne  dal  ferro  mi  fu  1'  andar  conteso  : 

Vern6  in  quel  punto,  ed  annott6 :  fe'  il  giorno 

E  la  serenity  poscia  ritorno. 

Di  piu  diro;  ch'  agli  alberi  da,  vita 
Spirito  uman,  che  sente  e  che  ragiona. 

Per  prova  sollo :  io  n'  ho  la  voce  udita, 
Che  nel  cor  fiebilmente  anco  mi  suona. 

Stilla  sangue  de'  tronchi  ogni  ferita, 
Quasi  di  moUe  came  abbian  "persona. 

No,  no,  pill  non  potrei  (vinto  mi  chiamo) 

Ne  corteccia  scorzar,  ne  sveller  ramo. 


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